


Carve Thy Name Upon My Nape

by BelladonnaLee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Healers, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicide, Undead
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2013-12-01
Packaged: 2018-01-02 09:45:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1055318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelladonnaLee/pseuds/BelladonnaLee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco works as a healer at St Mungo's, but there is one patient who only comes to him at night. The medicine he could give to this vampiric patient of his is human warmth in the form of blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hollow as Glass

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

The lofty, dim entrance hall of the manor was cold like the autumnal night beyond the looming double door, but Draco was used to it, just as he was used to the perpetual coldness of his limbs. Nevertheless, he sensed something was amiss in this empty mansion. Frowning slightly, he surveyed his surroundings. The ebony banisters and the mahogany panelling gleamed darkly as always. The solemn stillness of the manor remained undisturbed. The unique blend of faint mustiness and floral fragrance lingered still in the air.

At length, his ashen grey eyes fell upon the white spider lilies arranged loosely in a vase on the pedestal table. Upon those virgin petals were several dark crimson smears that were not there before. Gingerly he touched the petal; the smear was dry beneath his finger. His frown deepened, Draco took the candelabrum from the table and swiftly vanished into the bowel of the manor.

Light footfall echoed in the corridor and disrupted the hollow silence. Golden candlelight illuminated Draco's pale face, but it gave him no warmth. Muted portraits of past lords and ladies of the manor stared baldly at him as he passed; eyes of greenish grey, cerulean grey, violet-tinted grey, and mercurial grey followed his movement like moths.

A blast of cool breeze assailed him the moment he opened the door leading to the grounds. He shuddered instinctively, and the candlelight shuddered with him. The chilly midnight air stung his face; above, the reddish grey sky looked ready to cry. Letting out a breath, Draco shielded the swaying flame with his hand and hastened across the grounds to where a glass pavilion stood.

Composed of metal and glass, the circular pavilion was a whimsical construct against the rigid classicism of the mansion. In appearance it resembled a conservatory, but it contained no plants. Instead, it housed silver instruments and glass apparatus and leather-bound books; Draco was a healer and a researcher, not a herbologist.

The pavilion should have been unoccupied, yet presently light was shining from within like a beacon, outlining a human silhouette. As if drawn by the light, Draco quickened his pace. The candlelight in his hand wavered wildly, but he ignored it. Once he reached the intricately carved door of the pavilion, he opened it without hesitation and stepped inside.

The chamber offered little relief from the chill. Spacious and barely furnished, the pavilion was as hollow and desolate as the mansion proper. Silver and glass glinted faintly in the shadow; a black leather jacket was carelessly thrown over the deep green chesterfield sofa; piles of books littered the rosewood low table and the floor; but Draco's attention was drawn to the light and the lean figure standing by the rosewood desk. Quietly he closed the door behind him, shutting out the spiteful wind.

The figure, clad in a black jumper and a pair of khaki trousers, turned around and smiled at Draco. Dark, unruly hair liken to raven's wings, a pallid, boyish face framed by a pair of glasses, crystalline green eyes sparkled -- the young man was a study of serenity if not for the blood-stained hand clutching a blood-stained cloth to his throat.

"Hello." Harry gave a sheepish wave with his free hand, his warm baritone voice ringing beneath the domed ceiling. "I let myself in. I hope you don't mind."

"You don't seem to mind letting yourself in, so why should I?" Draco remarked, though he did not appear annoyed. After blowing out the candle and banishing the candle holder to where it belonged, he took off his dark overcoat, revealing the flawless navy blue shirt and black tie beneath.

"Sit down." Draco gestured at the sofa, before throwing his coat atop Harry's, and himself on the sofa. Only when Harry sat down placidly beside him did he finally chide, "When are you going to learn?"

Peppermint green pupils glittered like stained glass in the sun. "I was thirsty, and my throat was so dry and itchy I couldn't help myself."

Draco did not answer; instead he removed the cloth and examined the livid red scratches on Harry's throat. It looked as though Harry had tried to claw his throat open. A trickle of blood was oozing from the wound, a teardrop of vermilion on raw flesh. Metallic eyes narrowed, Draco let his professionalism take over. He pushed aside the books on the table, conjured the necessary medical supply and a ceramic basin filled with water, then set to work.

As he cleaned Harry's wound with a fresh cloth, Draco felt his fingertips going numb from the icy water. Harry, on the other hand, found the chill soothing against his burning throat. Verdant eyes lingered on Draco's sharp visage for several beats before turning away; mercurial eyes flickered upward briefly before returning to examining Harry's throat.

Tantalising seconds turned into tantalising minutes, and Harry could stand the empty silence no more. "How are you?"

"I've been busy." Draco applied a thin layer of white ointment to Harry's throat, his touch delicate yet impersonal. A sweet aroma liken to Queen of the Night infected the air. "And you?"

There was a note of hesitation in Harry's voice. "I'm alright. Just a little tired."

Draco did not ask if Harry was feeling unwell; he already knew. As he directed a ribbon of fresh bandage to coil neatly around his patient's neck, he said pointedly, "You haven't been sleeping well."

"It's nothing serious," Harry replied dismissively and smiled again, a softened curve on bloodless lips. "I'm a night owl, remember?"

"And I'm your healer, remember?" Draco countered impatiently. After clearing away what was left of the medical supply, he washed his hands in the basin. The water was as clear and heartbreakingly cold as glass.

"Yes, I know." Quiet words accompanied the gentle sound of sloshing water, and Draco fell silent.

Out of habit, Harry studied the healer's hands: long, artistic fingers, blue veins beneath bone-white skin, and sensually curved wrists. They were like the most delicately and lovingly carved of ice sculptures. And those hands had touched him when others dared not, when he himself had forgotten the delight of human warmth.

His throat tingled with growing thirst, Harry grasped his bandaged throat and said, "Thanks."

"Don't thank me. You have to pay for it." Draco pointed out nonchalantly as he wiped his hands on the towel. Theirs was never a conventional relation between a healer and his patient, even though they had maintained the illusion of one.

When finally Draco raised his silver eyes to meet Harry's, he found Harry staring at him, his smile fallen away like leaves. Something flickered in those dark absinthe eyes of Harry's, and Draco knew what it meant. Several heartbeats later, Draco slowly loosened his tie and collar, before turning around to face the other way.

"You have held out longer than I had expected." Words came out as a whisper.

Harry let out a dry, hollow chuckle, then gently pulled Draco's shirt lower to reveal his pale, elegantly curved neck. Leaning into the dark-haired man, Draco felt a sharp pain biting into his neck and winced, but soon the pain dulled into a lingering ache.

"Sorry," Harry murmured as if he was mumbling in his sleep or trapped in a trance.

As always Draco said nothing, but he could not help twisting his mouth sardonically. Words became no more than smoke beyond this boundary, intangible and insubstantial like the paper thin connection between him and his patient.

Cool lips descended on Draco's neck; dry mouth closed around the wound and drank ravenously from it. Cool hands gripped his chin and clutched his hand, fingers interlaced with his in solace. Draco could conjure neither fear nor thrill, not even a spark of disgust as he listened absently to the wet, suckling sound of his blood being drawn from him, nothing but burning cold that could have been mistaken for heat. And ever so slowly, ever so tantalisingly, he closed his eyes.

* * * * * * *

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is somewhat of an unconventional vampire story. In this story, I attempt to evoke a cold, transparent, and hollow ambience. I envision Draco as less of a healer in the conventional sense and more like a doctor; I confess I am indulging myself somewhat with this set-up. Thank you very much for reading.


	2. Datura for Deception

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

St Mungo's, the meeting place of the newborn and the dead, the sane and the insane, fell into a drugged stupor after dark. Candlelight encased in crystal spheres floated listlessly above, its flame dimmed to mirror the darkened sky. A palette of dusk invaded the narrow corridors as bustling of the day gave way to secrecy at night.

Walking briskly in the deserted corridor, Draco clutched his briefcase loosely, the hem of his long overcoat billowed at his wake. The sharp tang of disinfectant and the sickening sweetness reminiscent of withered flowers or rotten fruits tingled his nostrils. The occasional murmur from behind closed door chased after him like the buzz of a wasp.

When he reached the stairwell, he saw Augustus Pye lumbering up the stairs. Bespectacled and unshaven, with a slight slouch and a constant look of ennui, Pye gave the impression of a man whose passion for his job was on the verge of burning out.

The chief healer of Dai Llewellyn Ward gave a vague salute; a whiff of tobacco fluttered from his lime-green robe. "Weren't you on the night shift?"

"I've switched to the day shift." Draco eyed the pack of cigarettes Pye was fiddling with. Pye was a proficient healer; his only vice was his nicotine addiction. He was also one of the few people in St Mungo's who cared little about the notoriety the Malfoy name carries. Others, however, were not as inclined to forgive and forget.

Those jaded blue eyes studied Draco's colourless visage; dark brows knitted into a knot. "How's your research going?"

"It's progressing, though there are details I need to confirm first." Draco paused. "I'm grateful for your input."

"No need to thank me. I don't know what you are really working on, and I don't really care to know."

The senior healer took out a cigarette and tapped the tip on his sleeve. His eyes, however, were fixated on Draco's neck. Draco tensed, for Pye's gaze seemed to penetrate past several layers of fabric to his naked throat.

As if sensing his unease, Pye drawled, "If you don't want to kill yourself, eat something." With that he waved his farewell and went up the stairs.

As soon as the senior healer vanished around the corner, Draco let out a breath and hastened down the stairs to the ground floor. Dull glass lamps greeted him in the nearly empty lobby. A dozen patrons lurked about the reception area; healers carrying clipboards flitted from one patient to the next. A wiry witch with hair red as rust looked bored behind the information desk. Nevertheless, Draco was not looking at her; he was looking at the small posy of black datura on the desk.

The witch looked up at Draco, and, following his gaze, jerked her head impatiently at the flowers. "Someone left these for you. Again."

Draco did not ask who sent the posy; he already knew. Even without the constant reminder, he could not possibly forget the frigid winter that brought him face to face with the despairing revelation about this world.

Flowers as black-hearted as they were deadly, even the seemingly innocent white ribbon around the stems might be dipped in poison. And yet, he strolled forward and took the posy without hesitation. In the depth of his mind, something not entirely of wrath or guilt or regret or even fear rose to the surface of his mind -- it was resignation with a touch of relief.

* * * * * * *

Rain fell upon the domed glass roof like pebbles; water streamed down the side of the pavilion like tears. Inside, a single lamplight stood still, illuminating Draco's visage and the yellowing pages he was poring over. The raven-feather quill and the half-full ink bottle lay ready beside his leather bound notebook. Some distance away was the low table buried beneath mountains of books; a corner was cleared away for the devil's trumpets to mutter their curses.

Minutes lengthened into hours; it was another long, disquiet night. The droning of the rain was occasionally punctured by the scratches of the quill and the crackling of parchment. Sleep was far from Draco's mind. His neck ached, his eyes itched, his head throbbed -- yet he merely rubbed his neck before returning to the text.

A dull thump shattered his focus. Startled, he raised his eyes and looked around. The door was firmly shut as before; rain continued to fall; the silhouette of the mansion proper stood motionless against the bleeding sky. Nonetheless, the back of his neck prickled; someone -- or something -- was watching him in the shadow.

Slowly the healer got up, walked to the door, and pulled it open. Raindrops stung his face like glass shards; the accompanying chill invaded his thinly clothed body; the pattering of rain drowned out his own heartbeat. Yet, as his eyes fell upon a motionless figure by the glass, his other senses deserted him.

Clad in black, the figure was one with the shadow but for the pallor of the skin. A pale hand touched the glass pane; a head of raven black tilted sideways; a pair of glasses glinted. Absinthe green eyes, glowing with unnatural brilliance, gazed placidly at the healer.

Harry.

When his senses rushed back into him, Draco stalked forward and grabbed Harry's frozen hand. Without a word he dragged Harry inside and shut the door behind them. As he let go of his patient, however, icy fingers grasped his hand as if unwilling to part. Looking up, he saw a strange expression passing across Harry's face. Cold bit into his skin like needles, yet the sensation comforted him.

Several tantalising beats later, Harry pulled away. Draco took the opportunity to study him. Like a drowned man Harry was drenched to the bone, his visage waxen as stone. Draco's silvery gaze glided downward to the young man's neck. Neither a scratch nor a trace of blood could be seen above the unbuttoned collar.

Heaving a breath, Harry pushed the dripping strands away from his forehead. "Have I disturbed you? Sorry about that."

"Stop apologising. I'm tired of it," Draco reprimanded in a quiet voice. The cool wetness from Harry's hand lingered still on his like a spectre refusing to rest. Holding the thought for a heartbeat longer, he discreetly clenched his fist before letting the thought die.

When the healer drew his wand and cast the drying charm on his guest and himself, Harry flashed him a smile in gratitude. It was the same smile he wore on a certain rainy night when Draco found him crouching before the gate of the manor with blood on his hands. He had reminded Draco of a stray dog seeking a final resting place. Why he came to his former rival for help, however, was a question Harry had yet to answer.

Absently rubbing the back of his aching neck, Draco asked nonchalantly, "Are you here for the blood? Or are you here to find out how the research is going?"

The bluntness in the healer's tone made Harry grimace, yet his voice lost none of its light-heartedness. "I'll pick choice number three."

Draco leant against the edge of the sofa and crossed his arms. "And what might that be?"

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Harry mirrored Draco's movement and leant against the glass wall. When he raised his head to regard the healer, his pupils were dark as ink. The heartfelt emotion that characterised his voice was choked to nothingness.

"I had a dream the other night. We were alone in the Great Hall, which was decked in black. There were no candles floating in the air, but I could see everything clearly. In the middle of the hall was a slab of ice, and you were lying on it with your eyes closed. I stood over you with a carving knife in my hand. I thought I should cut you open, and I did. There wasn't as much blood as I imagined. And then I ate you. First the organs, then the torso, the arms, the legs. I ate everything except your head."

Throughout the narrative, Draco contemplated his patient's blank look with unreadable eyes. Once Harry concluded his gruesome account, the healer simply said, "Sit."

Those bloodless lips of Harry's curled upward, and the spell was broken. Taking a deep breath, he strolled to the sofa and sank into it. Immediately his verdant eyes fell upon the flowers on the table, a splash of implacable blackness as if they were moulded from shadow. Compelled by curiosity, he poked the trumpet-like flower, who nodded in response. "What are these called?"

"Datura, also known as devil's trumpet or thorn apple." The healer summoned a bottle of potion and a glass to him.

Harry squinted at the datura with interest. "What is it with you and poison? People usually decorate their houses with non-poisonous flowers."

"I work with poison for a living, Potter," Draco remarked dryly and sat down on the sofa. Nonetheless, he did not divulge to Harry about the datura being a _gift_.

The healer uncorked the bottle, filled the glass, and handed it to Harry, who accepted it with a mumbled thanks. The honey-tinted potion swirled gently; it was like liquid amber without a past. Harry took a sip, its cool sweetness glided down his throat like satin.

"I thought you would work in the _Spell Damage_ department." Harry rolled the glass between his palms. "It suits you better."

The smiling face of a certain someone who was no more crept within the periphery of Draco's consciousness. "I was there for awhile. Then I got a transfer."

Harry did not ask why, and for a moment, silence prevailed. Rain raged on beyond the glass house; stillness dominated the hollow within. At length, Draco reached out and caressed the datura. The charcoal black flower shuddered as if purring in pleasure.

"What did I taste like in your dream?" Draco's mellow voice fractured the growing languor.

"Like blood and raw meat," Harry replied while absently staring at Draco's hand; alabaster fingers flirted with poisonous black velvet.

Several heartbeats later, Draco withdrew his hand and rubbed his fingertips together. "You didn't ask, but I'll say it anyway. I'm not confident that I will find a permanent cure. In fact, I still haven't fathomed out what you are."

Running his thumb over the rim of the glass, Harry said in an eerily unperturbed tone, "Something not quite human, I suppose?" He smiled, even though there was no humour in his eyes. "Well then," he put down the glass and got up, "I should go."

As his patient turned to leave, the healer noted his lonely back and languid movement. This man who was once his arch-nemesis was a waif lost in a world of uncertainty. And yet, he seemed more tangible to Draco than the blood and scars and deformity and madness and death he had witnessed at St Mungo's.

Propelled by impulse or by delirium, neither of which seemed any different from the other, Draco opened his mouth. "You can stay if you like. I won't throw you out."

The dark figure halted, a shadow caught by the wires of light. "Are you saying this out of obligation as my healer?"

"Yes," Draco replied without skipping a beat. "It will be easier for me to observe you if you are close by."

Ever so hesitantly, Harry turned around, his boyish visage a complexion of yearning and denial. Parched lips parted to utter four simple words. "I might kill you."

Mercurial eyes bored into absinthe green, deeply, unfalteringly. "I shall deal with it when the time comes."

* * * * * * *

For several days, the world was drowning in ceaseless rain. A bouquet of frost and chill was already in the air, signalling what would be as brutal a winter as the last. The sky languished in a sea of ashes and dust; below, the earth drifted into a profound slumber.

The dying autumn never departed from the manor; the prelude to winter slipped in uninvited. However unchanged the manor appeared, within those unlit corridors and dust-ridden rooms, something other than human and ghost roamed. Curtains were drawn from dawn to dusk; another set of footsteps prowled the corridors after dark.

In the evening well past the blue hour, the owner of the house could be seen taking his supper in the parlour, at times alone, at times accompanied by his new lodger. The walls in the parlour were painted a sombre hunter green. A large mahogany cabinet with double glass door reigned one end; French windows dominated the other. In between, upholstered chairs and mahogany tables were strewn in a vague semblance of order.

A wisp of cool air and the whisper of rain trickled into the room through the open window. And there by the window, Harry sat on the floor, brooding over the glass chessboard before him. Barefoot and enveloped in a thin white shirt, he seemed oblivious to the cold.

Verdant eyes looked up as Draco, carrying a silver tray with him, entered the parlour. When their eyes met, the healer paused for a second before striding across the room. The healer had been living alone for so long he had forgotten what it was like to live with someone.

The patient watched as the healer put down the tray and flopped onto an armchair. The observer became the observed. "You look tired. Bad day at work?"

"I'm fine." Draco poured himself a cup of tea. The citric fragrance of bergamot circled the air like a butterfly. White steam twirled, and in the background, candlelight wavered.

He did not ask what Harry did during the day; he had witnessed everything when he stood over his patient every day after dawn. The routine was akin to standing over a coffin and observing the departed, mourning day after day in a never-ending cycle of funerals.

Frowning at the state of his solitary chess game, Harry heaved a sigh. "Say, have you ever played chess by yourself and reached a stalemate?"

Mercurial eyes flickered briefly towards the figure who was rubbing his chin in meditation. "Yes, I have."

"It's maddening, isn't it?" Harry mused aloud as he removed the kings from the board and lined them up with other discarded corpses. The survivors of the game seemed lost without a king they could protect. "To drive yourself to a corner without intending to, I mean."

"Yes, it is," the healer paused, "maddening."

Draco wrapped his cool fingers around the cup and brought it to his equally cool lips. The aromatic warmth reminded him of something Harry had said: Blood is life in actuality and love in disguise. Every time it flowed down his throat, it melted the frost in his heart and showed him an illusion of happiness.

Mentally shaking himself out of the reminiscence, Draco got up, and to Harry's surprise, sat down on the floor. Putting aside his cup of liquid warmth for the time being, he returned the chess pieces to their initial position, granting them new life and new purpose. And Harry, smiling faintly at him, accepted the challenge.

Wintry breeze invaded the parlour and brushed an indecent finger over Draco's neck, where a long, narrow scar could be seen just above the graceful curve of the collar-bone, a mark permanently etched on his skin. When Draco inhaled deeply, he could taste the bergamot in the parlour, the wet grass outside the window, the cedar fragrance from himself, and nothing from Harry.

As Harry pondered his next move, Draco squinted at the nocturnal landscape that was as black as the datura he had received, wondering if Harry knew one of his old friends was dead, and that he, Draco Malfoy, was the architect behind the passing.

* * * * * * *

__

_To be continued..._


	3. Nepenthe in the Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.

Night intruded into the darkest corners of the house; the waxing moon stared blankly through the window into the bedroom. Touched by the cold glow of the moon, Draco stirred beneath the sheet and turned away from the light. At length, the bedroom door glided open, admitting a shadow into the chamber. Soft patter approached the bed; fabric rustled amidst stillness; the mattress sank with a barely perceptible whine.

Harry, sitting on the bed that was not his, studied the sleeping form of the master of the manor. Blond locks paler than any gold, an angular visage slightly etched with age, thin lips prone to irony -- Draco had the air of a Byronic hero, albeit too cold and restrained to be labelled as one. He would likely scoff at the description, however, Harry mused.

The pleasant scent of cedar coiled around Harry's senses; he wondered if the aroma came from Draco's body. Naked green eyes watched the healer's eyelids quiver before he lowered his gaze to the bare neck. His throat itched with thirst, but he made no attempt to move.

A pair of grey eyes fluttered open and stared at him without a hint of surprise. Nothing about him seemed to surprise the healer. "I thought you went out."

"I was just taking a stroll around the manor." Harry flashed the healer a quick smile, forgetting that unlike him, Draco had poor night vision. "I didn't realise how large the manor is until I tried walking to the edge of the estate."

An arrogant eyebrow arched. "You've been spending a lot of time in the manor lately."

Those unnaturally bright eyes of Harry's gleamed. "I like it here. It's remote and quiet."

"And convenient. If you kill me here, no one will find out I'm dead for days." The thorn in Draco's voice was conspicuously lacking in malice.

"Yeah. That's why you should be more careful." As though hypnotised, Harry placed a hand over Draco's throat, warm flesh scorching his icy palm. Beneath the moonlight, the ghostly pallor of Draco's skin rivalled Harry's. "I can easily bleed you dry right now."

A shudder went through Draco at the contact, but he did not shun away. "Perhaps you can. Still, if I'm dead, you will have no one to depend upon."

Harry let out a dry chuckle while tightening his hold. His throat continued to burn; the core of his being grew unbearably cold as if he had swallowed poison-laced dry ice. "Aren't you forgetting something? I might not be able to keep my head together when the thirst strikes."

The healer felt a tremor coursing through the patient's body. Frowning, Draco squinted at Harry's face; he saw nothing beyond vague outline and glittering green orbs. "Let me put it this way. What are you more afraid of? The craving?" The healer paused. "Or solitude?"

Gazing into those lucid eyes of Draco's, Harry thought he could see his own inhumanly white face reflected in their depths. Slowly he drew away and curled one leg beneath him. "You know me better than I thought. Are all healers like that?"

"You are just easy to read." Ever so lightly Draco touched Harry's cheek; Harry remained still as an unwound automaton. Too many words were left unsaid, too many hints scattered in the dark. "Easier than most people, at any rate."

Harry twisted the corner of his lips before leaning into Draco's touch. "I should be more careful around you then." The implicit meaning was unmistakable; he had something to hide. "Do you enjoy digging into your patient's cupboard for skeletons?"

"No. I don't care either way." After lingering on the icy skin for several tantalising beats, the healer pulled away and let his hand fall onto the blanket. "But it's nice to be reminded that I'm still on this side of the sea."

For a fleeting moment, Harry held out his hand; a second later, he thought better of it. The tingling warmth on his skin was swiftly fading into distant memory. "If you ever go near the cliff, I will pull you back -- as long as you want me to."

Half-veiled grey eyes gazed deeply into those twin pools of absinthe, searching for what even Draco could not rightly tell. "Maybe I want you to fall with me."

Stillness dominated the chamber; in a distance beyond stone and glass, an owl hooted to the baroque pearl high above. "If that's what you want," Harry uttered quietly.

The bedspread rustled; Draco looked away from his patient. "I was joking." Weariness cloaked the healer's spirit like opium smoke; he had revealed more than he would like. "Lie down before you pass out."

"I couldn't tell if you are being cruel or being kind," Harry jested, neither admitting nor denying the healer's diagnosis. Keeping his distance from the healer, he stretched himself on the bed, yet he could not resist brushing his thumb over Draco's eyelid. "Good night, Draco."

_I'm being selfish,_ Draco mused as he closed his eyes. He could feel Harry's presence beside him, close but never quite within reach. "Good night, Harry."

* * * * * * *

The sky turned ashen as a flurry of snow descended on earth. A chill had seeped under the skin of the house and into the bedroom, rousing Draco from his uneasy sleep. When he opened his eyes, the pale curve of his patient's neck met his gaze. Propelled by the instinct of a healer, he reached out and felt for a pulse beneath the glacial skin. There was none; he could very well have been sleeping beside a corpse.

Letting out a breath, he sat up and waved his wand at the curtains. The thick draperies slid shut like a horizontal guillotine, trapping the snow outside and the wizard within. A small flame came to life; the graceful curves of rosewood gleamed with history; bleached wallpapers soaked in burning gold.

The figure beside him did not stir, did not murmur, did not even exhale. Pressing his lips together, Draco studied his patient. A sickening bluish hue had come over Harry's pale complexion, his lips nearly black. Those purple scratches on his throat branded themselves into the healer's retinas. The period between onsets was steadily shortening, Draco noted to himself.

What ran through Harry's mind as he was lulled to sleep by the approaching dawn, knowing he might never wake again? Draco did not know the answer, nor did he want to speculate. Were he to leave him be, his patient may or may not return to life after dark; it was enough to fray his sanity. If so, why did he let Harry stay?

In the back of his mind, Draco recalled the words a certain patient had left behind for him. _No one wants to die alone. That's why everyone is searching all his life for someone to be buried with him in the coffin._

He shook himself out of the reminiscence; mirroring his troubled mind, the candlelight flickered. After summoning a glass goblet to him, he rolled up his sleeve, pressed the tip of the wand against his wrist, and muttered the blood-letting spell. With the precision of a surgeon, the spell drew a straight line across his wrist, slitting his artery open. Despite the familiarity of the routine, he winced at the sharp sting. Red beads rose from the open flesh and dripped downwards, prompting him to quickly catch them in the goblet.

As he watched the crystalline clarity of the glass gave way to murky crimson, he remembered Harry once asked him if he was suicidal. _No,_ he had replied. _I have no intention to die._ His patient did not appear to believe him, however.

When the goblet was almost full, he carefully set it aside and healed the wound. Nothing remained on his wrist but a faint scar as a grotesque memento. With some effort he held Harry's body against his and placed the goblet beneath those bruised lips. "Harry, open your mouth. You need to drink this."

Obediently his patient parted his lips, and little by little Draco fed him. Once the goblet was empty but for a tint of burgundy, the healer put down the glass and lowered his patient onto the bed. A blush of life had crept onto Harry's face, his cheeks full and his lips red as a poppy. And yet, this _life_ of his could not be more fragile, a balancing act on a tightrope connecting this shore and the next.

Harry had cemented his existence as a legend and a mystery when he vanished from the wizarding world three years ago. Two years and some months later, he came to Draco, the chisel of time left not a single scratch on his face. If Draco's speculation was correct, whatever had befallen Harry must have occurred much earlier, perhaps even dating back to the end of the last war.

Absently Draco brushed those unruly locks away from Harry's forehead, revealing a patch of smooth, unmarked skin. The infamous scar had faded into a footnote of a legend. "What happened to you, Harry Potter?"

* * * * * * *

The leaden morning brought along a whirlwind of activities in the hospital. Between conducting his round and dealing with frantic patients, Draco had no time to ponder about his nocturnal patient. Once he had finished his round in the wards, he went down to the lobby, where the resonance of hymns flowed heavenward to the lofty ceiling.

The lobby glittered with glass ornaments and silver snow; a Christmas tree adorned with a thousand burning candles reigned at the centre; a small choir complemented the decor with golden sound. As patients and visitors and healers alike paused to savour the music, the usual bustle gave way to a scene of serenity.

His ashen eyes downcast, Draco was about to walk away when he caught sight of Hermione Granger and her three-year-old daughter, Rose.

Hermione was no longer the studious girl she once was; she had metamorphosed into another creature altogether. Her hair coiled into a knot behind her head; her dainty figure wrapped in a slim black overcoat, beneath which was a pair of knee-high leather boots; her visage touched with the faintest shade of cosmetics -- she looked like the Ministry official that she is.

Standing away from the crowd, she clutched her daughter's hand, wistfulness enveloped her like the fragrance of a withered rose. Beside her, Rose stared at the singers with wide eyes, eyes she had inherited from her mother. The hue of her hair, on the other hand, came from her father, the same flaming red as a certain someone who was no more.

Several heartbeats later, Hermione tilted her head towards his direction and gave a start. After saying something to her daughter, she strolled towards Draco with Rose in tow. A small frown appeared briefly on her brow before a more amiable smile crept onto her lips.

Draco nodded at her, his demeanour reverting to decade-old habit. "Granger."

Those liquid eyes of hers softened with nostalgia. "Hello, Malfoy." She turned to the little girl by her side. "Rose, this is Mr Malfoy. He's a healer and an old classmate of mum and dad's."

Rose regarded him with large, groggy eyes, curiosity interlaced with lethargy; it was obvious that she was ill. Crouching to her height, Draco looked into her dilated pupils and said, "Nice to meet you, Rose. May I take a look at you?"

When Rose nodded, he put his hand on her forehead; she was burning. He then checked her pulse; it was disconcertingly erratic. "She's probably caught the salamander fever." He turned to Hermione. "A spoonful of _Lacrimae Undine_ every six hours should help. Just in case, go to the second floor and have a healer look at her."

"Thank you, Malfoy. I was thinking of the same thing, but I would breathe easier to have a professional opinion." Hermione's gaze followed his languid movement as he stood up. "You don't look well."

"I'm fine." It occurred to him that he had been repeating these words one too many times, mainly to a certain dark-haired man he was harbouring in the manor. "I'm a healer after all. I know what to do if I'm not feeling well."

"Haven't you heard of the saying, _'A healer heals not himself'_?" Tightening her hold on her daughter, his former classmate appraised him before averting her eyes. Voices from the other side of the lobby slipped through the silence between them.

At length, Hermione took a deep breath. "Are you still bothered by-" Applause drowned out the rest of her query. She did not finish her sentence, but he knew what she had meant to say. "I know you are not at fault. We should've noticed sooner."

The healer did not want to dwell on the subject, not when it was so close to the abominable winter solstice. Nevertheless, there was something he must know. "How's Johnson?"

"She's... coping." The uncharacteristically vague reply told Draco far more than Hermione would have imagined. "Not too well, I'm afraid." The rest of the remark was swallowed by further silence, yet its ghost hung in the air like a wisp of incense smoke.

_Just like you_ \-- that was probably what she wanted to say. Eyes narrowed, Draco decided to change the subject. "Have you heard from Potter lately?"

Stunned, Hermione looked sharply at him, too many strands of emotions flashed across her face for Draco to decipher. A moment passed by before she regained her wit. "I thought you don't care about him."

"I don't." Draco paused while the wheels in his head quickly conjured a plausible excuse. "I just want to let you know that I might have run into him awhile ago."

Shock and something far more intense tore her facade of composure into shreds. "When did that happen? Where did you see him?"

Harry had lost contact with his friends, perhaps even from the time of his disappearance. His speculation confirmed, Draco took a step back and lied. "That was back in August. I saw someone who looked like him crossing the street several blocks from the hospital. It was night-time, so I couldn't tell for sure if it was really him."

She did not ask what he was doing in the Muggle world; he felt no need to explain. Slender shoulders sagged in defeat, she seemed lost in thought until Rose tugged at her hand. Lowering her gaze, she forced herself to smile and patted her daughter's head.

"Maybe we'll talk again some other time." Ironclad resolve hardened Hermione's voice; Draco knew better than to refuse. "Merry Christmas, Malfoy."

"Merry Christmas," Draco said out of courtesy, even though he had disrupted what little peace remained for her at the worst of time.

At the urging of her mother, Rose waved goodbye at the healer and left with Hermione, a scene of harmony marred by melancholy. Were he to get married several years ago, he might have a child around Rose's age by now, Draco reflected wryly while he continued on his way. Regret, however, did not intrude into his mind. He did not want an heir; the Malfoy bloodline will end with his demise.

White flakes caressed his face as he stepped out of the sanctuary and into the courtyard. Letting out a white puff into the crisp, wintry air, he strode towards the half-crumbled greenhouse at the far end, the frozen ground crackling beneath his feet as if he was stepping on broken glass.

* * * * * * *

The house was oppressively dark when Draco returned to the manor that evening. Without a word he lit the candle, trepidation dancing just beyond the periphery of the flame. The brown leather pouch on the pedestal table confirmed his suspicion. Gingerly he picked up the bag, untied the knot, and shook out the content. Glittering gold coins fell onto the table in a sizable heap, clashing and clanking in discord.

Once he had emptied the pouch, he tossed it aside without a second thought. Not once pausing to examine the fortune spread across the table, he took the candelabrum with him and went up the stairs. Shadows stretched across blank walls and hollow floor, writhing in disquietude.

When Draco came to his own bedroom, the door stood open and the bed made. Without warning a bout of dizziness stabbed into his head, and the ground shook with his will; the potion he had taken this morning had lost its effect. Faltered, he gritted his teeth and stumbled into the bathroom. The claw-footed ceramic bathtub crouched at the far end, a cradle and a coffin for the young man who was neither entirely alive nor entirely dead.

The healer shone the light at the fixture; the ivory womb was empty. Wasting no time, he stalked to the guestroom at the end of the corridor. In the panelled room Harry had chosen as his lair, curtains were pulled apart and furniture neatly arranged; not a single personal item remained. The room exuded neither a scent of life nor an odour of death; emptiness reigned instead.

Reluctant to give in, he roamed the entire mansion like a ghoul, searching for raven locks and absinthe orbs. The draperies in the parlour were still; the books in the pavilion were undisturbed; the cages in the dungeons were silent.

Once it was clear that Harry was no longer in the manor, Draco allowed his legs to carry him back to his own room, the starting point of this one-sided game of hide and seek. Fatigued in flesh and weary in spirit, he threw himself onto the clean bedspread and closed his eyes.

The thought of heading out to look for Harry crossed Draco's mind before his reason silenced the idea. His patient was free to come and go as he pleases; Draco had neither the right nor the inclination to bind him in chains. Bitterly he chuckled at himself; it was laughable to become attached to a stray cat.

Perhaps Harry had been right to leave while he still could; perhaps Draco would be right to let go while he still had a chance. Nevertheless, agitation simmered in Draco's chest, along with it a sliver of some other emotion he was reluctant to name.

* * * * * * *

Two days later -- a lapse longer than Draco had originally anticipated -- Hermione came to the hospital unbidden and invited him out for coffee after work.

With terracotta as its palette and an abundance of greenery as its accessory, the coffee house conveyed earthy warmth that did not transfer as well to its menu. Muggles dominated the place, but Hermione and Draco managed to secure a table by the large picture window. Strands of music flowed lazily by overhead; the aroma of coffee twirled around in a slow waltz.

Sipping the espresso that was satisfactory in temperature but lacking in strength, Draco waited for Hermione to speak; he did not have to wait for long.

"Is there anything else you can recall about the man you saw?" Desperation lined Hermione's voice as she pleaded with the healer, her cup of latte laid forgotten on the little table meant exactly for two. "Anything would be fine."

"There is nothing more to tell," Draco replied while observing a young woman tapping away on a slim silver contraption, her eyes fixated on the thin cover of the device. "Like I said, it was dark. I didn't get a clear view of the man's face."

Piercing brown eyes scrutinised him like needles about to pin down the wings of a butterfly. "Tell me. Why did you think he might be Harry?"

Treading carefully around the lie he had woven, Draco took his time to respond. "It's just a feeling. It might have been the dark hair. It might have been the stature or the way he moved."

Hermione looked down at the milky liquid in her cup before she picked up the spoon and stirred the content. "What do you think his age was?" The wavering timbre of her voice betrayed the composed mask she was trying to hide behind.

Silver eyes flickered once at her direction. "If you are content with an estimate, I would say he's dressed like a man younger than I am, though he could have been older."

Unable to disguise her distress anymore, she cradled the cup between her palms and heaved a long, tired sigh. Draco watched her with a sliver of unease; after all, he had fed her sweet without informing her it was sprinkled with fine dust. Nevertheless, he had no wish to divulge to her, not for his patient's sake, but for his own selfish reason.

Politely diverting his gaze elsewhere, he looked out the window at the pedestrians crowding the slushy street. A group of adolescents sauntered past the coffee house, laughing and chattering without a care. Draco wondered if Harry had ever been as carefree when he was young.

"You know why he disappeared, don't you?" he said.

A reflection could tell no lie; Hermione's doppelgänger froze in the glass. That was all he needed to know. Pushing his chair back, he got up, took his coat, and dropped a Galleon on the table. "I don't have any Muggle money. Hopefully this would be enough."

She looked as though she was struggling with words she had not spoken in years. Before either of them would come to regret it, Draco stopped her. "I'm not really interested. After all, it has nothing to do with me."

When he returned to the manor, he was greeted by the same lifeless hollow, the same echoing silence, the same cold darkness, albeit more expansive and more unbearable than before.

Gold coins laid scattered across the table as he had left them, gathering dust as everything else in the house was. Overshadowing the gold he had no use for were several crimson poppies tripping over one another in the vase. Like the spider lilies, these poppies came from the manor's greenhouse, where flowers continuously bloom out of season, twisted nature akin to a stray cat who had died a thousand times.

The analytical side of his psyche understood why he had accepted Harry as his patient. The stagnant air surrounding Harry was so much like the air in this manor, at once stifling and transparent, rotten and solacing. At the same time, he transcended this butterfly dream of a world, an unlikely dagger forged for the purpose of waking the living.

The longing to unravel the mystery, the longing to melt away the frost, the longing to feel that inhumanly cold skin beneath his fingers -- none rivalled the simple desire to see Harry, even if what Draco would find at the other end of the rope was his corpse.

* * * * * * *

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Nepenthe is a potion that induces forgetfulness of sorrow. Poppy is a symbol of sleep, and for some, of death. Thank you for reading.


	4. A Coffin Named Loneliness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.
> 
> Warning: Violence and drug (potion) abuse.

Sepulchral snow scattered with no end like ashes and petals, burying the metropolis and adorning the grave. Winter solstice descended upon the world uninvited; premature dusk swallowed what little remained of daylight. Amidst the deathly white, St Mungo's blossomed with activities, and Draco, losing not the briskness of his footstep on this mournful anniversary, entered one of the partitions in the Lethe Ward, the limbo before the end.

Behind the bleached curtain, a healer-in-training gave a start, her green eyes darting to the intruder's face before darting away as though the healer was Medusa in the guise of a man. Ignoring the typical reaction he had garnered from most of his colleagues, Draco strolled to the iron bed at the centre of the partition.

A witch around forty years of age lay on the white bedspread, her glassy eyes staring through the ceiling at something beyond Draco's reach. At a glance, her flushed skin was a deception of health, for her skin was stretched against sharp bones. Once upon a time, she might be a good looking woman, but what lay before Draco now was merely a shell.

Raising an eyebrow, Draco looked into those dilated pupils, within which swirled a cloud of iridescent dreams. A familiar scent seeped out from the patient's body and teased Draco's senses. "Did you find anything on her?"

The healer-in-training tightened the grip on her clipboard and waved her wand. A bottle fell out of the air and into Draco's outstretched hand. "She was holding this when she was brought in. It looks like the Draught of the Living Death."

Draco held the bottle against the golden lamplight overhead, noting the water-like residual within. After pulling out the rubber stopper, he held the bottle to his nose. In the midst of bitterness, he untangled several strands of herbs: valerian, asphodel, wormwood, and opium poppy.

His grey eyes downcast, Draco replaced the stopper and slipped the bottle into his pocket. "This is a variation of the Draught, most likely modified for its hallucinatory effect." The healer-in-training bit her lip in distress. Only one reason existed for someone to voluntarily take a narcotic potion -- to escape.

Without a word, Draco took the patient's hand and traced the signature of the potion through her veins to her heart. Probing deeper, he sensed the corrupting substance simmering in her marrow, dyeing everything an opiate black. Experience told him neither magic nor potion of this world would heal the patient. Nevertheless, he was a healer; his only duty was keep the patient alive regardless of the patient's private wish.

Draco put down the patient's hand. "Send her to the third floor. I shall prepare an antidote." Once the healer-in-training acknowledged his command, Draco turned to leave.

"Mr Malfoy, can I ask you something?" The healer-in-training called out to him, unable to contain her curiosity about this cold-hearted man. "Was the rumour about you and one of your patients true?"

Tilting his head to regard the young woman, he gazed into a pair of clear green eyes that reminded him of Harry. The thorn in his chest pierced deeper into his heart. "I don't know what you have heard, but you should know a patient's record is confidential. Anything else?"

The healer-in-training winced at those words; she had brushed upon the unspoken taboo in the closed society of healers. Those inorganic grey eyes of Draco's were contemplating her, his gaze neither kind nor accusatory. Looking away in guilt, she mumbled, "No."

Taking his cue, Draco withdrew from the partition and strolled down the aisle. Like morning mist in the forest, white curtains on either side led him down the only path he could tread. At the far end, two other healers were conversing quietly among themselves, their lime-green robes clashing with the achromatic space. When one of the healers caught sight of him, the conversation died a premature death.

Draco spared the pair of healers a glance and a nod before striding past them to the double doors. Everything in this ward bled white as if its designer was fearful of contamination. The sharp pallor stung Draco's eyes and toyed with his perception, reawakening in his mind the montage of white gown and white roses and white tombstones. Gritting his teeth, Draco pushed the door open and returned to the world of the living.

In purposeful strides, Draco walked past healers and patients alike, his mind turning into a void. While the healer-in-training meant no harm, the reminder of _that man_ on winter solstice did little to elevate Draco's mood. Beyond the windows, the snow he came to hate continued to fall; deep in his body, the memory of _that man_ burnt like a fresh knife wound.

He wanted to see Harry.

The silent figure of Augustus Pye came into view around the corner. When those unfathomable azure eyes fell upon Draco, Pye gave the young man a salute and walked towards him. Draco welcomed the distraction, but he could see the questioning look on Pye's face.

A beat later, Pye reverted to his typical nonchalance and held out the book in his hand for Draco to take. The book was the size of a healer's tome, its indigo cover scratched and its seam threatening to break apart. "Here," Pye said. "I thought you might be interested."

"Thank you." Draco accepted the book and flipped through the frayed pages. However informative the book might be, it served no purpose if the person he wished to heal had vanished like a mirage, the greatest irony among ironies. "I shall return the book to you in two weeks."

"No need to hurry. I don't need it anyway." After a pause, Pye let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a weary sigh. "Don't take too much Dreamless Sleep Potion. Or too much Wakefulness Potion, for that matter. The worst thing you can do is become dependent on them."

Draco snapped the book shut; the dull thud hung in the air between the two men like a knell. "I appreciate your concern, even though it is unnecessary." The pride in Draco would not allow him to display his weakness before anyone; nevertheless, Pye knew him better than most people did. "I won't submit to the influence."

Beneath the glasses, those inscrutable eyes of Pye's squinted at the young healer. For a bemusing moment, Draco thought he saw Pye smile. "Fair enough. Owl me if there's something you don't understand."

After watching the senior healer slouch away into the entrails of the hospital, Draco recollected his thought and turned his mind to the immediate problem he must solve. Taken over by the instinct of a healer, he began to formulate the potion that would shatter his patient's narcotic dream into an irreparable shower of fine dust.

* * * * * * *

In the glass pavilion that was as much his laboratory as his sanctuary, Draco sat on the sofa with Pye's book in his hand. Stacks of books on the low table were pushed aside to accommodate a wooden tray, upon which were bottles and phials in various shapes and sizes. Beside the tray stood a beaker containing a freshly cut Queen of the Night; the fair, ethereal blossom breathed out a sweet fragrance into the night. Nearby, an oil lamp hovered like a forgotten guardian angel.

He did not want to fall asleep, tonight least of all. If he were to close his eyes, he feared he would see once more the images he had locked away inside the coffin: a frail hand on the bed, the signet ring rolling to a stop on the desk; blood gushing out from a slashed arm, a smile distorted by heartbreaking realisation.

At length, he placed the book on the table and reached for one of the phials. After dripping a drop of aquamarine onto the back of his hand, he licked away the potion and closed his eyes. A bitterness liken to almond spread across his tongue, momentarily numbing his senses. Several seconds passed by before his sensation returned. He put down the phial and repeated the procedure with all the potions on the tray -- until he reached a bottle of rose red liquid.

Nausea assailed him with little mercy; imaginary flame burnt his abdomen from the inside out. Clutching his stomach, he stretched out on the sofa and pressed a hand over his forehead. He could feel cold sweat beneath his palm, but the coolness of his hand calmed him somewhat. With hazy eyes he stared at the glass dome above, a rose window of viscera.

When the discomfort subsided, he sat up and folded his hands together, his grey irises beholding a field of white beyond the glass. As his gaze swept across the chamber, he wondered if a cure, aside from human blood, indeed existed for this nocturnal patient of his. Some aspects of his patient's physiology had altered since his days at Hogwarts, yet Harry could not be rightly classified as another being either. Without his patient, the healer could do nothing more than read the literature and brew potions no one would drink.

A black shadow in the midst of white entered his line of sight. Startled, Draco took a sharp intake of breath and squinted at the greyish face pressing against the glass. The same playful smile flitted across the generous mouth; red hair of the same hue as cinnabar barely concealed a pair of heated brown eyes. It was—

The glass cracked, stirring Draco out of his reverie. When he looked again, he saw not the ghost from his past staring at him behind the fractured glass pane, but Harry's stunned visage. For a tantalising moment, the healer and the patient gazed at each other. At length, Harry mouthed, _"May I come in?"_ His breath left not a hint of fog on the glass.

The tension in Draco ebbed away as though it never existed. Once he had recovered some semblance of composure, he nodded at Harry, who circled around the pavilion to the door. The healer took the opportunity to pull out his wand and repair the glass.

Cautious as a man handling a crown made of crystal, Harry opened the door and stepped inside. A blast of cold air accompanied his entrance and chased away the remnant of Draco's brooding. After taking a long, deep breath, Draco slid his gaze from the sprinkles of snow on Harry's black leather jacket to the black woollen scarf around the neck. At last, his eyes rested upon the haggard face adorned with a strange expression Draco could not decipher.

"Are you all right?" Harry shut the door behind him. "Have I startled you again? I didn't mean to do that."

Instead of replying, Draco walked towards his patient and held Harry's cheek in his hand. Icy skin with a touch of snow stung his palm, reminding him this is reality. Bright green eyes flickered for a moment before the feverish glow within became steady as a frozen firefly. After a beat, Harry leant into the touch and kissed his palm with those cool lips of his. The urge to question the patient tingled at the tip of his tongue, but Draco snuffed it out.

The healer lowered his hand, his gaze lingering on the scarf he had never seen Harry wear before. A second later, realisation swept away all but a single strand of thought from his mind. Pressing his lips to a thin line, he reached down and unwound the scarf around Harry's neck. His patient did not move an inch as the fabric fell away to reveal a pale neck devoid of fresh wound.

Harry could not have survived for a fortnight without ingesting blood; the lack of scratches on his neck could only mean that he had been feeding off someone else. Indignation simmered beneath the surface of the healer's consciousness. Without a word, Draco gave the scarf back to Harry, who accepted it with an apologetic smile on his face. Turning away, Draco took the tray of potions and returned it to the long table at the far corner of the glass house.

"Why are you standing there?" Draco asked while moving across the room to his desk. Books and pieces of parchment littered the desk in complete disarray. "Sit down."

After brushing away the snow on his shoulders, Harry threw the scarf over the back of the sofa and stuffed his hands in his pockets. "You are not angry with me?" His voice came out softer than he intended.

"I am angry." Without ceremony the healer rolled up all the parchment and threw them into the drawer. Once he had finished cleaning up his desk, he carried a stack of books in his arms and dumped the load onto the low table. The dull thump resonated in the chamber and refused to part.

"You are angry, but you are not scared?" A distorted, sardonic smile crept onto Harry's lips. The glittering snow in his hair had melted away into glittering water drops. "I'm not the soft-hearted lad I used to be. The Boy Who Lived doesn't exist anymore."

"I know that already. So?" Draco ran his fingers over the title of the topmost book. The golden gothic script on the turquoise cover had faded into washed-out platinum.

"Other people's blood makes me sick, but yours doesn't." The unsettling calm in Harry's voice contrasted markedly with the abrupt shift of his footing. "It's enough to make me become addicted."

"Is that the reason you left?" Raising his head, Draco trained his shrewd grey eyes upon Harry, scrutinising, pondering, reflecting. In truth, he did not dislike the idea of his patient becoming dependent on him. "If so, why are you here?"

"I want to see you." Absinthe eyes burnt into Draco's cool mercury, longing to set everything ablaze. His gaze was as much a curse as his words. "I'm contradicting myself, aren't I? I know one day I'll end up killing you, and yet I couldn't stop wanting to see you."

Silence rippled across the pavilion; a long white petal not unlike a feather fell onto the table. Narrowing his eyes, Draco stalked towards his patient and pulled Harry's right hand out of his pocket. A butterfly knife inlaid with golden vines was resting on Harry's palm. The healer took the knife and, with a practised flick of his wrist, flipped the blade open.

"You paid me to be your healer." Draco examined the blade against the lamplight. Untainted and untarnished, the tip of the blade gleamed like fangs of a beast. "It is a patient's job to listen to his healer's order."

Without hesitation, Draco brought the blade to his neck and slashed it open. A flash of silver accompanied crimson pain; blood dripped down and stained his collar black. Beholding the shock on his patient's face, Draco held the tip of the blade lightly against Harry's throat.

In Draco's hand, the butterfly knife could well be a surgeon's scalpel. The sharp point of the blade pressed steadily against his skin, yet Harry showed no fear. Green eyes stared in stupor at the bleeding neck; the non-audible breathing from before grew heavy and erratic. "I won't be able to stop."

"Then I'll stab you in the back." With that Draco withdrew the blade, grabbed Harry's nape with his free hand, and pushed the brunette's head to his neck. He thought Harry might have chuckled, but he could not be sure.

Imitating the move, Harry cradled the back of Draco's head and licked away the liquid that was sliding down the swan-like neck. The first sample of the healer's blood left him mesmerised and intoxicated. Unable to suppress his urge, he hungrily suckled on the wound and crushed Draco's body against his. The gentleness from before melted into pure instinct of a feral creature ravenous for warmth and company he no longer possessed.

As he felt teeth tearing at his wound, Draco flipped the knife close and slipped it into Harry's pocket. Every spasm of pain made him wince, yet the only thing he did was run his hand over Harry's hair as if stroking a cat. Outside, snow that could have been mistaken for spring blossoms danced to a stately saraband; inside, hypothermia numbed all his sensation but one.

With little warning, a spell of dizziness struck Draco; his patient was taking more from him than usual. After catching his breath, Draco clutched Harry tightly and said, "Do you want to hear a story? Once upon a time, there were two brothers living in the forest. They were close, particularly inseparable. One day, one of the brothers was mauled to death by a bear. The surviving brother killed the bear, but now he was left completely alone in the forest."

Ever so slowly, Harry raised his head. Those glowing eyes of his were blank as a mirror, his expression dazed as a man soaking in opium smoke, his lips tainted with a shade of wine red that did not suit his complexion. This was the hidden facet of Harry Potter his patient did not wish to face, and Draco forced him time and time again to accept the truth.

Narrowing his eyes, Draco grabbed Harry's chin and caught those stained lips with his. The taste of rust and copper on Harry's lips reminded him of the scent permeating the entire floor of the _Spell Damage_ department at St Mungo's; it was the taste of razor-sharp reality. The kiss lasted for several seconds before he released his patient.

Those frozen eyes of Harry's blinked; senses gradually returned within those dilated pupils. His lips parted in delayed realisation, Harry loosened his grip on the healer and dropped his arms. Something akin to pain passed across his countenance, and Draco could tell what was on his patient's mind.

"This is the price for making me angry," Draco proclaimed as he held Harry in his gaze.

Taken aback, Harry stared at him before a small smile found its way onto his lips. "I'll get something to treat your wound."

Harry crossed the chamber to the far corner, where a large cabinet made of rowan wood stood guard. Runes were carved onto the double doors; the snake-and-rod symbol of Aesculapius was impressed onto the bronze handles. When he opened the doors, bottle after bottle of substance gleamed at him like stained glass: absinthe, cantarella, nepenthe, laudanum.

Sweeping his gaze across the colourful bottles, he unconsciously licked away the remnant of blood on his lips, lips that tingled with the memory of Draco's warmth. He had forgotten how dangerously seductive intimacy could be on a night when no soul, sane or otherwise, wished to wallow in solitude.

At the other end of the glass house, Draco sat down on the sofa and let out a breath. Vertigo and fatigue ate into his spirit; he felt hollow as a shell. In truth, he could have healed the cut himself, yet he knew Harry wanted to do something for him as compensation. The healer was not being sensitive to his patient's feelings, however; he was merely clinging to the only piece of driftwood within his reach.

Harry came back with a bottle of blood-replenishing potion in his hand and a wooden box of healing supply in his arm. The bleeding on Draco's neck had stopped; a blot of crimson stood out in all its vividness against alabaster skin. Biting his lip, Harry set down his burden on the table and tended to Draco's wound as best as he could. For some time, neither men spoke.

"What does my blood taste like?" Draco asked while cold fingers smeared a thin layer of white salve over his wound. The ephemeral fragrance of Queen of the Night deepened in the air for a fleeting life upon this earth.

Haunted eyes cast a furtive glance at the healer before turning away. "It's warm," Harry replied as he put the dressing over the wound and taped it in place.

Draco conjured a wet cloth out of thin air and offered it to Harry, who accepted it with grace. "I thought my blood is cold," the healer remarked wryly.

When he saw the frown on his patient's forehead, he took the bottle from the table and gulped down every last drop of the potion. He always found it ironic that blood-replenishing potion tasted the same as the fluid it tried to reproduce.

After wiping his hand clean, Harry threw the cloth onto the table and returned extra dressings to the box. "You made up that story you just told me, didn't you?"

Draco leant back on the sofa and touched the dressing secured on his neck. As expected of a former Auror, Harry had done a good job dressing his wound. "Every story has a basis, wouldn't you agree?" There was a pause. "Why don't you tell me a story?"

That bony hand of Harry's closed the lid on the wooden box; those absinthe eyes of his flickered to the flower whose life would end when this longest night of the year died away. "I don't have a story to tell," Harry said. "Besides, you have to work tomorrow, don't you?"

As soon as those words took shape in the space between the healer and the patient, Draco dropped his head on Harry's shoulder without a word. Surprised, Harry stared at the head of blond for a beat before easing his tense shoulders. Those fair locks of Draco's caressed his neck and cheek; warmth seeped into his skin through two layers of fabric.

"Let me rest here for a moment," Draco said before closing his eyes. On such a night, he would put aside his healer's facade in front of Harry; after all, it was winter solstice. The smell of leather tingled his nostrils like cigarette smoke, yet he found the scent oddly comforting. "Just for a moment."

The image of two new tombstones erected in the Malfoy family graveyard flitted across Harry's mind. One of the graves was dedicated to Narcissa Malfoy, who passed away two years ago on this day, and the other to Lucius Malfoy, who departed in the following year. Draco had never spoken to him about his parents, but had he wanted to find out more, Harry had a feeling Draco would not stop him.

There was very little Harry could do for the healer. If he could at least offer some comfort to this man who had done far more for him than duties dictated, then he would do everything he could. Tentatively he reached out, gripped Draco's arm, and whispered, "As long as this is what you want."

* * * * * * *

On the very next day, as though guided by a witch's intuition, Hermione came to see Draco. The continuous movement in the lavishly decorated lobby could rival the swamp of crowd in the Ministry of Magic on any given day. Even as Christmas lurked around the corner, a hospital such as St Mungo's knew no rest. On the contrary, it was the time of year when St Mungo's was at its most chaotic.

Standing in a quiet corner with Hermione by his side, Draco schooled his expression into one of measured indifference. The high collar of his shirt concealed the wound on his neck from prying eyes. "Is there anything more you want from me? I've already said all I could say the other day."

Curvy tresses fell upon her hazel brown overcoat in graceful curls, yet Hermione seemed distracted. "No, that's not why I'm here." She handed a royal green gift bag to him, but he did not take it. "I forgot to thank you the other day, therefore I would like to give you a token of gratitude instead."

Sharp grey eyes bored into intelligent amber, finding nothing the healer did not already know. "I don't recall doing anything to deserve a gift from you," Draco drawled.

"You have given us hope that Harry might be back in England." Hermione absently tucked a loose strand behind her ear. Her wedding band glinted gold for a heartbeat. "That's all."

Draco detected words that were left unsaid, the vague outline of a hypothesis left unproven. "It is surprising that you simply take my word for it without dissecting every syllable coming out of my mouth."

Those lucid irises of hers pondered his face for a tantalising moment, observing, measuring, theorising. "You have no reason to lie, is that not so?" There was a pause. "That is, unless you have something to hide."

"No more than you do, Granger," Draco remarked coolly, deflecting the subtle probe to his thought. "Are you going to look for him?"

Silence dominated the space between the healer and his old classmate. Beyond the corner of stillness, witches and wizards went about their business as though not a day had passed since peace was delivered to them by the hands of countless corpses.

At length, Hermione looked away and cradled her arms as though stricken with cold, her voice so low that she could have been whispering to herself. "If he doesn't want to be found, no one in this world would be able to find him, not even Ron and I."

Draco cast his mind back to a certain rainy night by the front gate of the manor. Rather than going to his friends, Harry had come to his bitter rival instead. On hindsight, his patient might have thought the apathy of a former arch-nemesis was easier to swallow than the highly-strung concern from his friends. "How's your daughter?" Draco asked.

Hermione gave Draco a distant smile. "She's fine. Thanks for asking." With a note of finality, she thrust the bag into Draco's arm. "I hope you like it. If you have any news, please let me know." After nodding once at him, she strode across the lobby and merged into the moving crowd.

Once his old classmate had disappeared from his sight, Draco reached into the bag and pulled out a bottle of mead, around the neck of which was tied a magenta ribbon. The gift was merely a prop Hermione had employed in order to speak to him again. The healer could tell the witch suspected something, but at the moment she was lost in the little lie Draco had told. Even a witch as clever as Hermione Granger could not possibly fathom out the truth, least of all the healer's resolve to never surrender his patient to anyone, dead or otherwise.

* * * * * * *

In the next few days, Draco and Harry saw very little of each other; the healer had to cover work both day and night for his absent colleagues. When Draco returned to the manor, he only came back for a change of clothes and a quick examination of the patient dwelling in his house.

Withered flowers in the foyer were replaced by a bouquet of fresh white lilies; gold coins Draco had left scattered on the table were gathered and returned to his study. On the lowest step of the grand staircase sat Harry, who was holding a well-worn book in his hand. As Draco moved closer, he realised his lodger had gone through his collection of old books in the garret.

With a warm smile on his face as always, Harry greeted him. "Welcome home. Have you eaten yet?"

"No, I haven't. I need to go back to the hospital soon." Kneeling before his patient, Draco measured his patient's pulse, a tantalisingly slow rhythm suggestive of hibernation or a severe case of hypothermia. Nonetheless, such was the relative norm for this patient of his. "I see you have kept yourself entertained."

"What better way to spend the night in a large house all by yourself than read Henry James?" Harry said mildly while covering Draco's hand with his. At once, a knot found its way onto his brow. "Your hand is colder than usual."

"I've been outside." The dismissive remark did little to ease the frown on Harry's face, a reaction Draco found at once vexing and consoling. A moment later, the healer withdrew his hand and straightened up. "I'll be staying in the hospital for the next two days. You don't need to wait for me."

Harry stood up as well. For once he had to lower his head to regard Draco, who met his gaze evenly. The balance they had been attempting to maintain had tilted to the side since the night of winter solstice. Whether the change stemmed from the patient's confession or the healer's admission, Draco and Harry had yet a chance to find out.

In the end, it was Harry who broke the pregnant silence. "I'll stay here until you throw me out."

A burning ache fluttered across the healer's abdomen, for Draco knew what Harry was trying to do. Sly that the last surviving Malfoy was, he had no desire to stop the current from flowing or overflowing. "Do as you wish then." Avoiding his patient's gaze, Draco climbed the stairs and returned to his bedroom.

After a quick shower, Draco grabbed his bag of clothes and headed downstairs. Harry was waiting for him with a nylon bag in his hand. "I made some food from whatever I can find in the kitchen." He offered the bag to Draco. "Mind you, I can't guarantee what it tastes like."

Draco recalled Harry did not eat; his patient sustained solely on blood. "Thank you." The healer accepted the treat. "When I have a day off, we can go somewhere together."

A trickle of cheer brightened Harry's voice and softened the knot across his brow. "I'll look forward to it. Maybe we can go to the pub for a belated Christmas celebration. We'd spent years hating each other's guts that we never had a chance to drink together."

The remark reminded Draco of a certain bottle of mead sitting on the shelf in the parlour. There were things he wanted to ask Harry, but his inquiry would have to wait for now. "Yes, let's do that."

* * * * * * *

When Draco left for the hospital, Harry picked up his book and went up to the garret, a treasure trove he had discovered during one of his nocturnal wanderings. Draco once asked him, in a fit of morbid curiosity, how he could stand being inside the manor after what had transpired within these walls. Harry had no answer to give but a dismissive smile. Ghosts, invisible or otherwise, had haunted his steps for too long that they were almost like friends.

Harry opened the door to the garret. Decades ago, the garret would have been a servant's room. The deepening night invaded the room through the dormer window and dyed the interior indigo blue. Cobwebs crawled over all corners of the garret; a veil of dust shrouded bookshelves, boxes, and trunks filled with fragments of Draco's childhood. The static air in the room smelled of old books and spilled ink.

Unmindful of the dust, Harry sat down on the floor and examined the books on the shelves. These books, like everything else in the garret, had seen better days before they were banished to the attic like forgotten relics. Nevertheless, he could tell their owner once treasured them. These yellowing pages and their young reader had exchanged conversation Harry never knew of, at a moment in time Harry did not know exist.

He wanted to learn more.

Running his finger across the spines, he came across an empty space between an Arithmancy textbook and an advanced Transfiguration textbook. Harry chewed on his lip in despondence, for he could surmise which book had once occupied the space: Advanced Potion-making. Draco must have kept the book in his study as reference.

Once upon a time, a certain foolhardy Gryffindor picked up a certain book ought not to be read and opened the forbidden chest. What sprang out from those pages was not a companion, but a piece of darkness festering inside him that he had been trying to exorcise. It was the first time he realised how much blood a human being could spill. Fleetingly he mused if Draco still bore the scar from that mind-numbing day.

His throat prickling with thirst, Harry clutched his neck and opened a nearby trunk. An odour of mouldiness pounced at the first sign of provocation. Inside the trunk were sets of Draco's school uniforms. When Harry pulled out one of the black robes, the green-and-silver emblem of the Slytherin House glowered at him. A long time ago, he held a certain dislike for the emblem, yet even the detestation had passed away with those innocent days of harmless pranks and house rivalry.

He folded the robe and put it aside. It was then that he saw a slim package wrapped in a bruised purple cloth lying atop a dark jumper. Out of curiosity, he picked up the package and unwrapped it. Nestled in the purple cloth was a knife devoid of a sheath; the smell of Draco's blood lingered on the naked blade.

Compelled by instinct both human and non-human, he took the knife, brought it to his lips, and licked the blade. The sharpness of steel and the remnant of his healer's blood sent a shiver down his spine. Faintly he detected the presence of another individual, a certain someone he had known well. For a long time, those reflective green eyes of his stared at the knife. At length, he rewrapped the package, returned it to the trunk, placed the robe over the bundle, and slammed the lid shut.

* * * * * * *

By the time Draco was able to take a well deserved break, it was already more than a day later, a shade shy of half past three in the morning. Once he had put away the new batch of Pepperup potion he had just finished brewing, he went to the bathroom to wash his face. The polished mirror reflected his pale, weary visage; shadow smudged his eyes. The thought of giving Harry a fire-call crossed his mind before he dismissed the idea.

When he returned to the office, he checked the board to see if the condition of the patients had changed. The light beside the name Adele Featherstone shone violet like an amethyst. His fatigue forgotten, he grabbed a bottle of antidote from the cupboard and hastened down the deserted corridor to the Elm Ward.

In design, the Elm Ward resembled the Lethe Ward. Pale curtains sliced the ward into quarters of temporary haven. A passageway in the middle led to the far end of the ward, where a pair of windows framed the silent metropolis. Unlike the spotless, artificial white in the Lethe Ward, however, the Elm Ward retained the organic stone structure of the hospital.

Draco stepped into one of the partitions and closed the curtain behind him. The lamp by the nightstand lit up of its own accord, shedding light upon an assortment of objects: a box of paper napkins, a water jar and a glass. None of the items belonged to the patient. Despite the winter festivity, no one had visited her or sent her a Christmas present.

Maintaining a neutral expression, Draco placed the bottle on the nightstand and studied the patient. Those hazy eyes of hers squinted at the sudden glare for some time before fixating upon Draco's face, searching for what the healer could only imagine.

"This is not a dream, Adele Featherstone." The healer checked the patient's status by placing his hand on her forehead. "You are in St Mungo's. You lost consciousness after ingesting a variation of the Draught of the Living Death. It's been four days since you were brought here."

The witch stared blankly at him for several heartbeats. When comprehension crept onto her face, her eyes flickered to the side, away from the healer's face. As per the patient's wish, Draco kept his silence and probed the poison in her veins. Like a slumbering beast the poison did not respond; nevertheless, its density did not lessen despite the antidote the healer had administered.

Once he had learnt all he could, Draco lowered his hand. "I am not here to deliver a sermon. To be honest, I'm not interested in your circumstances." The healer's voice remained mellow yet firm. "There is no need for you to tell me anything."

The witch would not meet his gaze, therefore Draco continued. "Your condition is grave. If you fall asleep, it is likely you will not wake again." He detected a shudder passing through the witch's feeble frame, a final quiver of an autumn leaf before the fall. "I can prolong your life, but that is all."

Only then did the witch turn to him. With some difficulty she swallowed, moved her lips for some time like a mime, and squeezed out two guttural sound from her vocal cord. "How long?"

"That depends on you." Draco poured several mouthfuls of potion into the glass. Leaning forward, he helped the witch sit up and fed her the antidote.

A single teardrop slid down her hollow cheek, a proof that she could still feel sorrow and fear, that she was still human, too human. With delicacy the healer wiped away the glistening wetness, and the patient made a sound in gratitude. Like him, she lived in the glass coffin named Loneliness; unlike him, she chose to dwell in dreams.

After helping the witch drink some water, he left the half-filled glass on the nightstand within her reach. With that he lowered the witch onto the bed, drew his wand, and carved out a small bouquet of bright, scentless flowers in the empty space on the nightstand. Those thin lips of his patient's curved into the faintest of a smile.

"Merry Christmas, Adele Featherstone." He took the bottle with him, left the lamp alight, and cast one more look at the witch, who had forsaken the world and was in turn forsaken by the world. "I shall see you later."

* * * * * * *

The rest of the day flew by like a storm; Draco barely had time to catch a breath. As night descended upon the hospital, he longed only to curl up in bed and sleep until reality intruded. After he finished updating the records, he went to see Adele Featherstone, but she had fallen into the clutches of the poison once more.

He gathered his things and headed down to the lobby. Christmas had passed away for another year; New Year's Eve crawled ever closer in silence. As the festivity crept towards its end, the decorations in the lobby had lost much of their magic. The tall evergreen tree at the centre of the lobby languished in fatigue; sparkles and splendour dwindled to mere shadows.

In the midst of lethargy, a bundle of crimson _lycoris radiata_ prostrated like a corpse upon the information desk. Inhaling sharply, Draco found his legs carrying him towards the inevitable and his hand picking up the bouquet. Tied together by a black ribbon, those red spider lilies quivered at his movement. A small white card was dangling from the ribbon, and upon the card was written words in a scrawly handwriting he had once beheld.

Behind the desk, the witch, a petite brunette with smoky eyes, volunteered the information he did not need. "A man brought these for you. A tall redhead. Something's funny about his ears though. One of them is missing."

As grim realisation seized Draco by the throat, not a sound departed from his mouth. The reminder of that man's existence burnt inside his body as though that man had never left. After mumbling his thanks to the witch, he passed through the visitor's entrance with but a single thought in mind.

The street of Muggle London at night seemed duller than he remembered. Old-fashioned lampposts lined up sparsely along the snow-covered pavement; above, the sky continued to bleed. With watchful eyes Draco looked around him; a moment later, he caught a glimpse of movement across the street.

A man emerged from an alleyway; shadow trailed after him like a robe. Separated by distance and relative darkness and hundreds of torturous nights, Draco could nonetheless recognise the man, an apparition that had risen from the grave to take him away. Shrouded in semi-darkness, the man's hair could have been dyed with mercuric sulphide. The casual demeanour remained teasingly familiar, yet the man no longer wore a smile on his face.

When a strong gust whipped past the two men, Draco let the bouquet fall to the ground, scattering red needles and the rest of his thought. At the same time, a flash of red ripped through the street. Pain exploded from Draco's shoulder down to his stomach. As he fell backward into the snow, poppies blossomed before his eyes and withered in barely a heartbeat.

A chill not unlike Harry's seeped into his bones and drove away what little warmth he had left. Sharp pain dulled into an everlasting, never-ending ache he had known far too well. Struggling to breathe, he felt rust rising to his throat and coughed. Blood bubbled out of his mouth and dripped down his cheek.

As his vision grew dim, he saw the man standing over him. Street light illuminated the ghostly face of one George Weasley, who reached into his pocket and produced a single black rose. The man threw the rose onto Draco's torso as if paying tribute to the dead and spitting curses at the living. After casting a long, hard look at the healer, he stepped over the bleeding man and walked away into the night.

* * * * * * *

_To be continued..._


	5. Vol de Nuit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.
> 
> Warning: Self-harm and mention of suicide.

Beyond the glass wall, silhouette of the woods swayed against the midnight sky. The interior of the pavilion could have been a planetarium -- if not for a single lamplight by the sofa. The radio, occupying the only empty space on the low table, murmured in a female voice too otherworldly to be of this world, the melody too ethereal to be anything but a yearning for an illusion.

Curled up like a child on the sofa, Harry abandoned his book, rested his temple on the sofa's cushioned back, and looked at the healer sitting beside him. Draco, one thigh crossed over the other, was engrossed in his reading. Separated by an arm's length, Harry nonetheless felt the invisible distance between him and this healer of his.

Even though he knew very little of what Draco had gone through in the past few years, he could see barely healed scars concealed beneath the healer's armour. He wanted to reach out and bridge the distance, yet in truth, there was little he could offer. His hands were too cold and comfortless, his words too empty, his actions too pitiful. There was very little he could do for his healer, very little that would matter.

While the healer never said so aloud, Harry knew how the healer regarded this contradictory relation between them: two wounded animals licking each other's wounds. Nevertheless, regardless of whether he was the one using Draco or the one being used, he wanted to watch the healer for a little while longer.

Slowly he reached out and took Draco's hand in his, the healer's warmth almost like heat against his icy skin. Half a beat later, he felt Draco tighten his grip until their palms were connected.

"Aren't you cold?" Harry asked quietly, unable to tell apart gratitude from apology. The healer was the only one who never got startled by how cold he was, the only one who had spoiled him with too much warmth, warmth resembling the faintest outline of affection.

Tilting his head, Draco looked at him with those reflective grey eyes of his. "Yes, but I don't mind it right now."

 _You are as cruel as you are kind,_ Harry thought as the songstress continued to sing her elegy for the living and the nameless dead.

When Harry woke up from a dream that was memory in disguise, he felt soft fabric instead of human flesh in his hand. Lingering on the blanket and the pillow was not human warmth, but the entanglement of cedar and musk -- the scent that always radiated from Draco's body. Rolling onto his back, Harry stared at the ceiling and remembered he was on Draco's bed. However intrusive it might be for a mere lodger to sleep on his host's bed, the owner of the house never seemed to mind.

Harry reached for his glasses and put them on. The best of the Christmas festivities had gone by during his sleep; on the other hand, Draco should be returning home tonight. The thought alone gave Harry a thrill and a start, a thrill for he would be able to see Draco soon, a start for he had begun to consider the manor a home. As he got out of bed, he could not help laughing at himself. He had gotten too used to the simple, serene life in a place where countless hateful memories lurked around the corner.

Once he had made the bed, he returned to his room for a shower and a change of clothes. What was once a dusty, abandoned room at last regained some of its former glory. Even though Harry rarely stayed in his room, he took the time to dust off the furniture every so often. Since the healer had not charged him rent, the least he could do was perform chores around the house while Draco was away or asleep.

As he came out of the bathroom, something in the air made his throat itch. Although Draco had given him a bottle of blood, he had decided to put it aside in case of an emergency. After scratching his throat several times to ease the sensation, he took out the wand he had not used for some time from the drawer. His instinct as a former Auror informed him he might need his wand tonight.

Heading down to the foyer, he was about to go through one of the corridors when he caught a whiff of copper seeping through the narrow gap of the double doors. Alarmed, he placed his hand on the door, which, recognising him as a resident of the manor, opened for him. The field of white revealed nothing, but the familiar fragrance of Draco's blood confirmed his fear.

Wildly he dashed across the field towards the iron gates where the scent came from, scattering snow everywhere at his wake. The instinct of an addict who had stayed abstained from his medicine struggled against his apprehension for the healer's safety. As soon as he arrived at the gates, he threw them open and stepped outside. Immediately he saw the figure lying motionless in the snow. The air reeked so heavily of blood he recoiled from the scene, his mind flooded with a desire to swoop upon his healer and devour him. Gritting his teeth, he fought against his blood lust and knelt down by Draco's side.

There was blood everywhere, deep crimson on white skin, darkness soaked into clothes the original colour of which Harry could no longer tell. The hawthorn wand that had once passed through Harry's hand lay discarded in the snow. With trembling hands, Harry ripped Draco's shirt open and sucked in a deep breath. A long, deep gash ran from Draco's chest down to the abdomen as though someone meant to cut the healer open. Fortunately, the bleeding appeared to have stopped; Harry assumed Draco had cast a charm on the wound.

"I'm here, Draco." Harry pocketed Draco's wand and whipped out his own. "Don't die on me."

Although he had little time to waste, the former Auror hesitated. He had not attempted a healing charm for so long that the spell might backfire. And yet, when he saw fresh blood flowing out of Draco's wound, his heart stopped dead. He recognised the curse -- _Caede Inimicum_ , a vicious dark curse that had gained notoriety for its ability to block out all healing magic. The only method to counteract the curse was its counter-curse, which, like the mirror image of its twin, was difficult to cast. Nevertheless, if he did not act now, Draco would quickly bleed to death.

Steeling his mind, Harry bent down and licked the blood on Draco's chest. A groan escaped Draco's lips, but Harry held fast and suckled on the wound, his senses momentarily clouded by the heat. As soon as he had ingested a mouthful, he tore himself away from the intoxicating warmth and its dark promises.

The blood of the wizard flowed in his body and awakened the slumbering fragment inside him. Involuntarily he let out a whimper, his eyes glowing too brightly they did not seem real. When his gaze fell upon the healer's grey visage, he channelled every last drop of magic to the wand and cast the counter-curse.

The curse festering in the wound refused to submit. Harry was forced to press his will as hard as he dared against the poisonous magic. In a continuous motion, he ran his wand along the gash, praying to every deity and devil who would hear his plea. By the time the flow of his magic weakened to a trickle, the bleeding had stopped and the damage partially mended. Wishing to cause as little damage as possible, he terminated the spell lest he lose control.

After taking off his sweatshirt, Harry wrapped it around Draco and carried him back to the house. A searing chill, coming not from the wintry air but from within himself, burnt into his marrow and made him shiver. Draco's body temperature, already verging on the hypothermic by human standard, had dipped even further than normal.

The healer once asked him whether he was more afraid of his craving for human blood or of solitude, and he could not answer. As he tightened his arms around the man who had given him this fragile bubble of a haven, he knew one thing for certain: He was not ready to let Draco fall by himself into the depth of the Lethe.

The sentient nature of the manor must have sensed its master's plight, for the fireplace was ablaze and lamps were lit by the time Harry carried Draco into the parlour. After he lowered Draco onto the sofa, he hurried away to find healing supplies and returned with the wooden box. When he saw blood seeping into the makeshift dressing, his heart sank. He removed the sweatshirt and emptied half of the bottle of Essence of Dittany onto the wound, hoping beyond forlorn hope that the potion might slow the bleeding; and yet, that did little good.

"Don't die," Harry whispered as he redressed the wound, soaking white in red. "If you are as selfish as you claim to be, then don't die."

A certain conversation he had with the healer surfaced from the depth of his memory. Draco had told him about a healer he could depend on should something happen to him, and Harry had said he did not need another healer. Clutching to the last straw he had found, Harry raced down the corridor of the manor-house in search of the address of one Augustus Pye.

The time it took him to get in touch with the stranger via fire-call and explain Draco's situation was surprisingly short. At a glance, the man who emerged from the fireplace did not fit Harry's vision of a man Draco would trust. Scruffy and casually dressed, Augustus Pye was of a different species from the impeccable head of the Malfoy family. The stench of cigarette, thinly disguised beneath the smell of burnt firewood, clung to Pye like a cologne. Nevertheless, something about his aloof, weary expression reminded Harry of Draco.

After charming away the soot on his person, Pye took the barest of a glance at the elegant parlour before his gaze fell upon Draco's prone form on the couch. With a briskness Harry did not expect from this seemingly spiritless man, he went to the young healer's side and removed the dressing. 

"Will you get something for me?" he called out to Harry. Without turning his head, Pye rattled off the names of different potions while casting a spell on the patient.

Needing no further persuasion, Harry ran off to get what Pye needed. At the back of his mind, he was glad that he had taken the time to familiarise himself with Draco's store of potions. When he returned to the parlour, his arms full of bottles, he found Pye murmuring a chant while waving his wand back and forth over the gash.

Quietly Harry disposed the potions onto the table and said, "I brought the potions you've asked for." Pye nodded, not once taking his eye off his young colleague.

Wishing to distract the healer as little as possible, Harry stepped aside and let Pye work his magic. The quiet confidence and concentration with which Pye performed his duty gave Harry some comfort. Like a tamer, the healer coaxed the curse and manipulated it to his will, moulding its will into believing he was its master. When the curse relented, he gradually purified the corrosive magic with the counter-curse, nullifying its effect altogether. The poison eating into the wound whimpered once and faded.

Once the healer plucked out the last festering thorn and stopped the bleeding, he flicked his wand lightly over the gash in staccato as if stitching an invisible patchwork. With bated breath, Harry watched the gash gradually disappear. All that was left on Draco's torso was an angry red scar.

Heaving a sigh, Pye cleaned away the blood, dripped some potion over the scar, and dressed the wound. "He'll live."

Relief washed over Harry with such force he could feel his legs nearly give way. Steadying himself, he went to Pye when his assistance was needed, and gently lifted Draco's upper body. Pye murmured an incantation and coaxed the unconscious man into swallowing two potions. Once he deemed the condition stable for now, he floated Draco on a stretcher to the bedroom, where Harry helped the invalid change into clean clothes. After making sure the patient was comfortable, they left him to his rest and began the task of cleaning up the parlour and themselves.

In the bathroom, Harry looked at his reflection in the mirror and grimaced. Aside from his clothes, there was blood on his face and chin. He would not be surprised if Pye accused him of being Draco's attacker; nevertheless, the man barely reacted to his appearance. Absently he wiped the stain off his chin with the back of his hand and licked the blood away.

The awareness that his body smelled of Draco's blood vaguely registered in his mind. Suppressing the itch in his throat, he stripped off his clothes and took a shower, taking care to wash away all traces of Draco's blood on his body. When he was finished, he ignored the bundle on the floor, put on some clean clothes, and went down to the parlour.

Still as stone, Pye stood by the French window and looked out at the field of snow. As Harry's doppelganger flitted into the frame, he cast a glance at the reflection on the glass, the living meeting the eye of a ghost. Slowly he turned around and handed a piece of parchment to the young man. "Here are instructions on how to take care of him. If you have any questions, just ask."

"Thank you." Harry glanced through the instructions, which could not be written more clearly. However callous this man might appear to be, he was more attentive and considerate than one could imagine. "I don't think there'll be a problem." He pocketed the note. "Would you like some tea?"

Pye nodded. Harry went to the kitchen and brought back a tray of tea set, along with lemon biscuits he had found in the pantry. The clattering of china persisted for a while as Harry set down the tray and poured two cups of tea, one for the guest and one for himself. Without a word, Pye sank into the armchair and drank the tea. Harry sat down adjacent to the man and inhaled the floral, musky fragrance of the tea he was not going to drink.

"Do you mind if I smoke?" Pye asked, and Harry replied with a simple _not at all._

After putting down the cup, the man conjured a pack of cigarettes and a glass ashtray to him. In one fluid motion, he popped a cigarette into his mouth, rubbed the tip of the stick once, and lit it. A whiff of blue smoke circled above the table like an apparition. The air in the parlour morphed into a muddled blend of tobacco, firewood, Darjeeling tea and Draco's blood.

"Do you two work in the same department?" Harry asked while eyeing Pye's large hands, hands belonging to a practical worker with a dependence to nicotine.

"No, I work in another department." Those weary blue eyes of Pye's contemplated the young man who possessed unnaturally pale skin and unnaturally green eyes. "You are his patient, but at the same time, you are not his patient."

Green irises evaded the man's gaze and stared at the steam rising from the cup. With a single remark, Pye had pierced through the nature of Harry's relation to Draco. An ordinary healer would not offer his own blood as the medicine, and an ordinary patient would not thirst for his healer's blood. "How much did he tell you?"

"He consulted me about a cure he was working on." The senior healer tapped his cigarette against the ashtray; ashes fell into the glass without a sound. "I didn't know who the intended recipient is until I saw you."

Those words stirred in Harry's mind a ripple that reached deep into his subconscious. This man knew he was not quite what he appeared to be. Cradling the cup between his palms, Harry heard himself say, "Do you know who would want to hurt him?"

Pye took another drag from his cigarette and exhaled. "All I can tell you is that someone has been sending him poisonous flowers at the hospital. Ask him about the details when he wakes up. He'll probably tell you."

"What makes you think he'll tell me?" Harry asked, sounding more defensive than he would like to be.

"Just a hunch." After finishing his tea, Pye stubbed out the cigarette and slowly got up. "I'll return before dawn to see how he's doing."

Harry acknowledged the promise with a smile before the curve disappeared altogether. "Can I ask you one more question?" Pye made the slightest of a nod. "What happened to him these past few years?"

Taking his time, Pye stuffed his pack of cigarettes into his pocket, banished the dirty ashtray from the table, and let out a breath. As his indolent eyes met Harry's unblinking green, something akin to resignation passed across his face. "Aside from his parents passing away, you mean." There was a pause. "He was attacked by a patient. The patient then committed suicide. Beyond that, it's not my story to tell. If you want to know more, ask him."

When Pye departed, Harry went up to the bedroom and sat on the bed. The thin figure beneath the blanket seemed frail, the ashen visage above the blanket strangely young. Dark smudges had formed below Draco's eyes, accenting the pallor of his skin. Light as a feather, Harry's fingertips grazed a strand of blond, slid down a sharp cheek, and ended at a white throat. He did not linger long, only long enough to feel human warmth and a pulse.

The scar on Draco's neck stood out like a curse. Harry had cut the healer at the same spot too many times that the skin would no longer heal properly. It was not his intention to leave his mark on Draco, and yet the healer did not seem to mind. His face devoid of expression, Harry traced the scar with his icy finger, though he stopped short of touching Draco's skin. A moment later, he withdrew his hand, took one long look at the unconscious man, and leant over him, his mouth hovering above the cicatrice.

Even though he possessed no fangs, his teeth could, with some effort, tear Draco's throat open as a starving, desperate wolf could. During his wandering in the wilderness and the wilderness that was the metropolis, he had learnt to become a feral carnivore in the guise of a human when magic failed him. What Draco had been harbouring inside the manor was not a patient, but a beast that ought to be dead years ago.

Harry lingered over Draco's bare throat for several beats before he placed a light kiss over the scarred skin. As though he had felt a drop of ice on his neck, the young man on the bed stirred, but he soon relaxed into the embrace of the mattress. Pulling back, Harry stared at Draco without a single hint of emotion on his face.

Someone had cast a dark curse on Draco, intending to kill him. Whether or not the individual would strike again mattered little to Harry, for he had already decided on what to do. Just like what he had said to Draco, he was no longer the foolish child who clung to the concept of justice as he would cling to his father's hand, but a selfish, deceitful creature whose sole belief was his own instinct and desire.

A translucent hand reached out and stroked Draco's hair, wiry locks that resembled white gold in the dark. Harry's thought turned towards a certain someone he knew from the time of Hogwarts. Although Pye did not mention the name of the patient from Draco's past, Harry could guess who that patient was -- it was the same man whose one relic in the world was the knife Draco had kept in the trunk like a morbid memento.

 _So he's gone as well_ , Harry mused as he continued to watch over his healer's sleep. The news did not surprise him or depress him as much as he thought. In the depth of his mind, a melancholic calm lingered on. _What were you to him, Draco? Why did he lead me to you?_ The unconscious man offered no answer to his queries.

* * * * * * *

"I read a story once. A man had lost his wife. Devastated, he did everything within his power to bring her back. One night, he thought of something. If he were to pose as his wife using the Polyjuice Potion, he would be able to pretend that his wife was still alive inside him. A lot of things happened after that. In the end, he literally became his wife in body and soul. He had brought his wife back. In exchange, he had lost himself."

On the mahogany bureau, the silver pocket-watch ticked on past the witching hour. A golden-hued still life depicting various fruits and musical instruments lent a splash of colour to the panelled white walls. Light and shadow barely stirred in this crypt of an examination room. The rest of the hospital had fallen into oblivion for the night, while the nocturnal clinic was open for business to patrons who, for one reason or another, preferred to come by at night.

George Weasley was one such patient.

Sitting on the leather examination table, Weasley wore a deliberately cheerful smile that did not reach his brown eyes. "You probably think I don't need Polyjuice Potion, no? Fred and I might be twins, but we aren't exact copy of each other. Still," a finger flicked away a copper strand, "I would need to dig him up first."

"I don't recommend doing that." Draco coiled the bandage around Weasley's left arm, concealing the dressing and a criss-cross of old scars. Beneath the dressing was a long incision running along the entire length of the forearm.

The patient crooked his head and squinted at the healer; the lobe of his surviving ear glinted a stub of pigeon blood. "Are you saying this as a healer?"

"I'm saying this as _your_ healer." Turning away from his patient, Draco washed his hands by the stone basin. "The wound is healing well, but there'll be scarring. All things considered, you were fortunate. If your brother hadn't brought you to the hospital quickly, you might have died."

"Yeah. I should thank Ron for that, shouldn't I?" Dry amusement riddled Weasley's voice like one too many puncture marks. "You didn't ask how I got hurt. Was it an accident? Was I attacked?" He clenched and unclenched his fist as if trying to crush his words into pieces. "Did I do that to myself?"

Draco took his time to wipe his hands dry. The casting of a dark curse required a force of will and a desire to hurt on the part of the caster. The injury Weasley had sustained could only have come from an assault or self-infliction. Neither possibility would surprise the healer, for he had often witnessed the fruits of misdeeds human beings were capable of in the dead of night: bruises and gashes and blood and tears and a barrel of pain.

The healer leant against the writing bureau and crossed his arms. Spread out on the desk was the medical record written in his cursive hand, a fragment of George Weasley's life from his hospitalization up to now that barely scratched the surface. "If you want to talk, you'll talk whether I ask you or not."

" _I wasn't trying to kill myself_." The mask of the jester cracked ever so slightly, revealing a trace of malice beneath geniality. "Would you believe me if I say that?"

A healer must act as the patient's ally, even if the entire world turned against the said patient, even if no one else on this earth believed in the patient. While personally Draco did not care for ideology, he was still a healer. "There is no reason I shouldn't believe you."

Those jaded eyes of Weasley's narrowed. "Maybe I'm lying."

"Maybe you are." Undaunted, Draco studied his old schoolmate. If what Weasley sought for was kindness or empathy, he would not find it here. Nevertheless, Draco sensed his patient had no interest in well-meaning hypocrisy. "It's not my business to discover the cause. You were brought to the hospital because you were injured, and I healed you. That's all."

Weasley threw his head back and laughed. Echoes of his laughter rebounded around the room. "You don't care either way, do you? I like that." Like a child he hopped onto the ground, his mouth cracked a lopsided grin that turned him into something of a mad trickster. "I'll tell you another story next time."

As promised, Weasley came back with a new story in the next meeting. The theme of the week was doomed lovers deciding to end it all by committing a double suicide. "This is usually how sensationalists depict double suicides. After they consummate their love, they drink a bottle of poison and die in each other's arms. Or perhaps they stab each other and die looking into each other's eyes. Romantic, isn't it?"

"There is nothing romantic about dying -- for any cause." Unmoved by the tale, Draco turned his chair to face Weasley, who had straddled the other chair in the room. "No matter how you dress it up, the fact doesn't change."

"Yeah. But they were probably happy to die together." Resting his arms on the wing-like curve of the chair back, Weasley gave the healer a scrutinising look. A playful smile suddenly illuminated his face. "Do you know why Juliet stabbed herself after discovering her Romeo's dead? She couldn't live on without him? She wanted to reunite with him in the other world? The truth is simpler than that: It's scary to be alone, both in life and in death."

The image of two white tombstones, standing side by side as the two named dead once did in life, flickered before the healer's eyes. "Are you afraid of being alone?"

"Who isn't?" The patient rubbed the stubble on his chin. The curve on his shapely lips turned ever so wry. "You know, the real tragic figures in the story aren't the doomed couple, but the people who are left behind and must live on. Even so, I envy the lovers."

Some time later, Draco went to the staff room for a cup of tea. The staff room was left mostly in shadows but for a single candlelight on the spotless kitchen counter. Snores could be heard from the dark corner where several threadbare sofas were clustered. The space smelled of disinfectant and fresh lime. Taking care not to wake his colleague, he moved silently around the kitchen nook.

With a cup of hot tea in his hand, he stood by the window, sipped his tea, and surveyed the empty street. Thin mist had risen to shield the metropolis from brutal reality for the night. His ghostly self was floating on the other side of the glass, beckoning him to cross the threshold so that they could merge into one.

When Draco looked at his reflection in the mirror, he saw not his late parents but only himself. Others might beg to differ, however. A month had passed since he buried his father, and people still whispered about the demise of the notorious head of the Malfoy household and his lady. It must be comeuppance that their son, a healer, could save neither of them, that their cold-blooded son simply returned to work two days after the father's funeral as if nothing had changed.

Draco knew what kind of gossips had been exchanged behind his back, but he did not care enough to do anything in his defence. Grief was not something he needed to show other people, neither was the emptiness that was eating into his bones. A part of his psyche had grown cold and numb. Weasley probably understood the feeling better than anyone else could. After all, he had survived without his twin brother, who, in his own words, was his other half.

He once asked George Weasley how he could remain so calm when facing the nephew of the woman who killed his twin brother. In his usual teasing demeanour, Weasley said he was not the one who killed Fred. There was no meaning in hating a dead woman; he could not bring her back to life and fulfil his revenge with his own hands.

Finishing his tea, Draco replayed his earlier conversation with Weasley in his head. In his convoluted way, Weasley had denounced the lovers from the standpoint of a survivor. At the same time, he envied the lovers for the sole reason that he was unable to do what the lovers had done. The healer remembered how Weasley demanded Ron to keep quiet of his brief hospital stay to his family, particularly to their mother and Weasley's fiancee, Angelina Johnson. Somehow, this overly considerate move on his patient's part agitated him.

The rest of the dark hours melted into the hazy dawn. By the time Draco emerged from the hospital and onto the street, the sky had gone around the circle and reverted to the same pale blue as the previous dusk. As usual, he went to the local cafe for breakfast. White walls adorned with vintage photographs, chequered floor and chequered tablecloths, cheap red leather booths coupling with black wooden chairs -- the cafe had an unassuming appearance and an equally unassuming menu.

Once he had finished half of his egg benedict, he sighed and felt alive once more. He had been mulling over Weasley's situation more than he ought to. Perhaps it was too soon for him to return to work, but he needed something to occupy his time with. Perhaps he should recommend Weasley to another healer, but the pride in him refused to admit defeat.

After breakfast, he took a stroll along the street market, trying to lose himself in the crowd and the vibrancy of the scenery. The sound of price bargaining, the smell of fruits and flowers, and the sight of stalls lining up along the street felt slightly removed on this early summer morning. He bought several green apples from a stall and some breads from the bakery. When he was so tired he could barely walk, he slunk into the shadow and apparated back to the manor.

Inside the husk of the manor, silence and hollowness awaited. The groceries were brought to the kitchen; the bath was taken while the radio chattered on about the weather; the curtains in the bedroom were drawn against the intrusive daylight.

Settling beneath the blanket, Draco poured himself a dose of Dreamless Sleep Potion and stared at the purple liquid in the glass. When he was awake, he did not want to fall asleep; when he was asleep, he did not want to dream. His solution to the dilemma was Wakefulness Potion during waking hours and Dreamless Sleep Potion when sleep was necessary. The habit was hardly healthy, but he needed a rope to cling onto or he might sink.

In one gulp he downed the potion. He had enough time to put the now empty glass on the nightstand before his head hit the pillow. The potion spread rapidly inside his body and pulled him into a deep, undisturbed slumber. He had forgotten about the world and work and his parents and George Weasley. Neither dreams in the guise of reality nor memories in the guise of dreams came to him -- he had found his temporary peace.

* * * * * * *

Weasley was fond of stories, especially those of a macabre nature. At times, they were disguises; at other times, they were preludes to thoughts and secrets he had clearly never revealed to another soul before; more often still, they were his dares to the healer. In turn, Draco remained unfazed and maintained his professional detachment towards his patient. Even when his arm was completely healed, Weasley continued to visit the healer in the middle of the night, and Draco did not stop him.

The weather grew indecently warm and humid, hot air clinging to one's skin like a wet cloth. Yet summer did not once show its face inside the cool, windowless examination room of everlasting night. Sitting by the bureau as always, Draco twirled his quill and listened to Weasley's rendition of a mermaid's tragedy.

"The mermaid and the human met by the lake every full moon. They didn't understand the other's language, so they communicated through gestures. After a while, the mermaid noticed the human always said the same word whenever they were together. By chance, she found out it was the name of the human's dead lover. Furious that she's being used as a substitute, the mermaid transformed into a sea monster and devoured the human.

" _Be careful not to say the wrong name when you are shagging someone_ \-- a piece of good advice if I may say so." A twisted curve played about the corner of Weasley's lips. "It's still a silly story though."

"It's conventional compared to your typical Grand Guignol-style fare," Draco admitted.

"I might be twisted, but I have days when the leanan sidhe wouldn't come to me." Weasley rested his arms on the back of the chair and regarded the healer with a lazy tilt of his head. The curve on his mouth turned ever so sly. "Have you ever called out the wrong name before?"

Raising an eyebrow, Draco dropped his quill onto the desk and leant back against his chair. "Have you?"

"I'll leave that to your imagination." Weasley shrugged before looking away to study the still life on the wall. "It's strange, isn't it? I've lost half of myself, but I'm still alive. Have you ever seen a man who's cut in half survive for years?"

The playfulness in his voice did not falter; he could have been narrating a funny story that was meant to be dismissed the moment it was told in its entirety. It might be Weasley's intention to transform his confession into a dark comedy, but Draco had no desire to humour him, not even with a fake chuckle or two.

"The longer I'm alive, the more I believe he should be the one to live instead of me. I try to live for his sake, thinking that he would be disappointed if I didn't live my life to the fullest. It didn't work. My family tiptoes around me as if I'll break soon. Fred would've done a better job than I could. He wouldn't break my mother's heart. He wouldn't let anyone down.

"I know they couldn't stand facing me sometimes. When they look at me, they see him. I remind them too much of him and the grief of losing him. I don't blame them. They are doing the best they could to cope. I couldn't. It's hard to fake a smile for both of us, and I couldn't go on faking my smile anymore. I love my family, and I'm grateful to them. But I'm tired."

When it appeared Weasley would say no more, Draco stirred himself back to life and folded his hands together. He could not quite empathise with his patient's dilemma, for he had no living family left. The healer let out a breath and said in his typical nonchalant tone, "Is that the reason for those scars on your arm?"

Weasley gave a start, as though he did not expect the healer would ask him this question. Ever so slowly his lips curled into a lopsided grin. "Making sure I won't forget, perhaps? Or maybe I'm just a masochist who loves torturing himself." It was as good a confession to self-mutilation as any.

A desire not to forget and the guilt of a survivor -- Draco could understand these two concepts. Nevertheless, he had seen the scars on Weasley's arm, and none of them looked as serious or deep as the latest addition to the collection. Did something trigger in Weasley a necessity to maim his arm? _No_ , he caught himself, _this is not the time to form hypothesis._

"I'm not your friend, and certainly not your family. Therefore, you don't have to smile at me." As soon as those words left Draco's mouth, Weasley shot him a sharp glance, but the healer continued. "There is no need to live for the sake of anyone other than yourself. Everyone is born selfish, and that is the reason you are still alive. Besides, you are not Fred Weasley. You are George Weasley."

For a long time, Weasley stared at the healer, no fake cheerfulness, no malice, no tease, no anger; he was a soulless marionette. When life returned to him, he twisted the corner of his mouth, a curve too faint to be called a smile. "You are dangerous." Draco narrowed his eyes, but he let his patient go on. "You put on the air that you don't care about your patients, but you listen and calmly accept their worst side. Others might come to think of your indifference as kindness."

"Your twisted sense of humour eludes my understanding," Draco remarked while putting Weasley's medical record atop the pile of records he must return to the archive. Weasley smiled a small, wistful smile, but he left the subject at that.

Several emergency incidents and an unruly patient from one of the wards occupied the rest of the healer's night. When his shift had ended, Draco went down to the lobby and found Weasley pacing about in the nearly empty lounge. Pale grey light crept through the picture window and washed over the man, whose tall figure and ginger hair melded with the monochrome morning. He was wearing the clothes from the previous night.

"Good morning, Draco." Weasley waved at him. "I couldn't sleep, so I thought I'll come by and treat you to breakfast. No? It's not against the rule to have breakfast with a patient, right?" Too weary to argue with the man, Draco conceded.

Some time later, Ron Weasley came to the hospital asking about his brother's progress. There was very little Draco could tell him; instead, he took the opportunity to ask Ron about the reason behind his brother's injury. It turned out the night Weasley was hospitalised happened to be his twin's tenth deathday. Ten years -- Weasley was born on the same day as his twin, and now he and his twin were a decade apart.

Weasley was concerned about his self-destructive urge only to the extent of sparing his family from further distress. Without his family serving as a restraint, he would surely plummet to the ground in seconds. It was beyond the capability of a healer to mend a damaged soul that was severed in half; and yet, Draco wished to observe him for a little while longer.

* * * * * * *

Breakfast for one at the cafe gradually transformed into an occasional breakfast for two. As if he had no use for sleep, Weasley would at times appear in the hospital at the crack of dawn and invite the healer to breakfast. Although Draco knew he ought to refrain from becoming too close to a patient outside of work, his misgivings eventually eroded away by the lure of companionship and unguarded conversation.

Summer began to wane, and rain began to pour in never-ending torrents. On one such rainy morning, the redhead was waiting for him in the lobby, and as always, Draco could find no reason to refuse his invitation. When they left the comfort of the hospital and ventured into the rain, Weasley, like a gentleman that he was not, held a large white umbrella over them both. The healer raised an eyebrow, but he said nothing.

Neither he nor Weasley talked as they walked down the soggy street, at times stepping into a puddle on the weathered pavement. The ceaseless thud of rain striking the umbrella and the slosh of water being splashed around by passing vehicles formed the dialogue instead.

Left in a daze after a night of work, Draco accidentally bumped against his patient's shoulder. A faint scent of lotus flower tickled his olfactory sense. "Sorry."

The man crooked a small but genuine smile. "Don't worry about it." The well-defined profile, with glimmers of ruby and silver adorning one ear, stood out in the faceless crowd like white marble in the forest of black granite.

In silence they passed by a flower shop that had yet to open for business. The window display stood empty and forlorn. Flowers slept their cold sleep in glass coffins, what little remained of their rootless lives stretched to the limit. "What kind of flowers do you like?" Weasley asked suddenly.

" _Lycoris radiata_ ," Draco answered after a beat.

"That's an unusual choice. Supposedly, they bloom along the path to the underworld in eastern legend." Weasley tilted his head and caught Draco's curious gaze. "You're surprised that I knew? I like reading about legends and myths when I couldn't sleep at night. They give me inspiration for my next invention." And the conversation digressed.

On the very next morning, a bouquet of red spider lilies was waiting for Draco in the lobby. Wrapped in cellophane and tied together with a white ribbon, those crimson blossoms burnt a hole in the greyness of the hospital like shots of flame. At once vexed and perplexed, the healer held the bouquet in his arm and pulled out the small white card that was tucked beneath the ribbon. Scrawled across the unsigned card were the words: _Let's have a drink together._

Heaving a sigh, the healer, a bundle of flowers in one hand and a briefcase in the other, left the hospital through the visitor's entrance. The sound of rain drowned out all noise unique to the Muggle metropolis. Water drops beat against the healer's figure for a second or two; a white umbrella, held by the man who was a poor match to the colour white, sheltered him from the assault.

"What's the meaning of this?" the healer asked, referring to the flowers.

The wicked grin of a trickster flirted about the man's lips. "You like them, don't you?" Eyes the colour of dark rum regarded the healer with a strange look the healer could not decipher. "Besides, poisonous flowers suit you." A moment later, Weasley reverted to his amiable self. "Let's have a pick-me-up at the Leaky Cauldron, shall we?"

* * * * * * *

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The leanan sidhe is the Irish equivalent of a Muse; she gives inspiration to poets and artists in exchange for their sanity and lifeforce. _Vol de Nuit_ is the title of a novel written by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. Thank you very much for reading.


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